


The Things I Learned From You

by VishCount



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-10-10 23:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10449606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VishCount/pseuds/VishCount
Summary: When the evolution takes a hit on humanity, magic starts flowing wild among the population. But humanity doesn't accept new things without hate and the Casters soon become prisoners of science. Until they rebel and gain their freedom - the act leaving them collared like dogs.Jack has never understood his power, the ability to change into an animal. The feral instinct has cost him his family and faith to this society.Mark only wants to prevent the destruction he sees in the Casters. Protecting the innocent is his only goal while serving under the Magical Security Department.Then Jack's inner beast breaks free one day, making him something he never wanted to be. The only thing to save him is the interest the government shows towards his power. Accepting the offer means getting to know his inner self but also becoming a part of the MSD. Damned by his own curiosity, he's ripped off from his old life and put into a training facility in the middle of nowhere. There he meets his new partner, Mark, a top soldier of the MSD. The starting is rough but after awhile they start to learn, and it opens their eyes.





	1. broken by change

**Author's Note:**

> Something about this idea has stuck with me so I need to try. I'm thankful if you want to give it a shot, too.  
> I'm not a native English speaker and that means mistakes. I apologize for them. I've tried to proofread this as many times as I can but I can't make it perfect. If you're kind and want to point out my mistakes, feel free to leave a comment. I'm always up for improving my English skills.  
> I try to update this when I can but I can't promise you anything. Please be patient with me.  
> Please enjoy!

The bus card inside his pocket snaps in half. He can feel the pressure of his bent down form add to the small card when he's tying his shoelaces. Then the glass sharp broken plastic against his fingers almost makes him bleed and he's fucked. The frustration flares up inside of him, making him swear silently. Now he has to walk the whole week before the new card arrives.

Then the other fire inside of him kicks in, scaring the little girl next to him at the bus stop. It must be the eyes, Jack decides. They change into something unnatural because of his sudden burst of emotion, color him with frustration. The blonde haired girl with a stuffed animal squeezed under her arm makes a scared high pitched noise, jumping a little. She sees a monster where there used to be just a normal guy, crazy green hair tucked under his beanie his only more characteristic feature.

An angry mother reaches for her daughter protectively right as the metallic collar around Jack's neck acts out to tame the flames it reckons harmful. The choking feeling is immediate yet familiar, making Jack cough into his fist, tears forming in his eyes. He turns away, closes his eyes and starts to walk away from the scene he's definitely making and the curious looks he's getting. He doesn't want to hear it; someone calling him an anomaly.

He was born with this thing. The magic in his blood makes it possible for him to change his form into any animal he can imagine. The change, though, is as much dependent on his want as it is on the pure instinct stitched to his soul. The feelings work like a catalyst, making his body demand the change he's not allowed to make. Because of that, his neck is always bruised, burned, and bleeding, old scars covering the fine skin there.

There's no helping it. He breaks the law if he takes the collar off without official permission. The collar restricts the person's power to a certain level, counting the level from the amount of magical energy in their blood. For Jack, the level the government considers 'safe' is just far too low, his magic so powerful that even the slightest act gets him punished. It feels like playing with fire someone else lit up on his hands.

What really makes having the collar the worst thing ever are the dreams he has almost every other night. There he can't control himself, can't keep his emotions locked in the deepest corners of his heart. It's not his fault that his consciousness is being a huge douchebag, rippling through his emotions like a rollercoaster gone wild. Waking up every morning to the piercing pain around his throat is not what he wanted from life. But despite his efforts to explain it to someone who could get him a special permission for the nights, no change has happened. He's got his sleeping meds but even those don't always work.

Jack opens his apartment's door slightly out of breath after almost running the last two blocks. The darkness outside scares him, hiding the monsters gathering to the streets. Where he lives there is no boring night. He isn't even startled anymore if he hears gunshots or screams from a distance. The back alleys here smell like dried blood and molten garbage, mixed together, implying impure acts of heart. In the shadows happen things no one talks about.

The heater in Jack's small living room-slash-kitchen-slash-dining room isn't working again. The air is almost as cold as it is outside, the paper thin walls letting all warmth left go to waste. Sharp kick at the side of the old rusted radiator gets the hot water flowing again. While he waits for the heat, he wraps his jacket tighter around his body and shivers, exhausted and shaken. An hour slowly ticks by, making him feel boneless.

When the room is finally warm enough, Jack has already grown roots into the worn cushions under him, unable to even think about moving. In his head, the picture of the scared little girl keeps haunting him. Keeping his feelings in check takes so much of his energy and when he fails, too tired and too unfocused to really care, the result is always something like this. Always someone learns to hate him, learns to be afraid, learns to avoid. 

Tonight, the little girl will learn to fear the darkness, asking her mommy to look under her bed for her, asking to leave the door open for that thin thread of light. There are demons in this world wearing human skins, that's what Jack has learned. One lives within Jack himself, looking back from the mirror untamed. 

Other demons inside his head Jack tries to avoid until the utmost end, not giving in to his dreams. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, distracting his tired mind by reading hollow books and fiddling with his fingers. Even the dirty ceiling above his unmoving form is better than seeing those swift, shaky dreams that make his blood boil with magic. The hot pain of wanting something that is out of his reach gnaws hit gut every night, pushing him closer to the edge. Slipping off of it causes pain and staying on it is impossible. 

Jack misses the feeling of fullness, that being a vivid memory from years back. The only time he was able to do as his body wanted, as his whole being demanded him to do.

When his powers woke up at his fifth summer of life, he got lost for a whole week. The only memory he has from that week is the feeling of being complete. Some of the other kids back then told that he changed in the middle of his joyous laughter, sprouting wings like an angel and then claws like a monster. His first – and most surely last – animal form were a small swallow. The doctors told him he was lucky to be alive after spending a week as a common prey. Jack himself began to think that he should've just died like that.

Far past 3 am he finally has to give up. The words on the grumbled pages of the book are beginning to look like mush in front of his far too tired eyes. His neck is aching, his body begging for the rest it needs and Jack is scared to let it have.

Finally, he gets up, mind in a haze. He keeps staring at his bed from the bedroom door, like the heap of blankets could murder him. Clothes drop on the floor here and there while he's moving closer, all stubbornness beaten. Fingers touch the cold metal of his collar, hovering over the lock. Maybe he could get his powers in control if he could just take the fucker off, get rid of the pain for once, learn about himself. But without a permission opening the collar would just take him into jail quicker than he could even defend his sorry ass.

Sleep creeps in with sharp teeth and long claws. The dreams are just glimpses, reminders from the past, the feelings of being lost and broken strong in them. The word unwanted is plastered to the insides of Jack's eyelids. All that sleep just makes him more tired, heart feeling like a wreck.

The morning hasn't even had the opportunity to touch the night sky for the first time when Jack wakes up, screaming in pain. He smells burning skin, the collar white hot around his neck, trying to keep his power down. He gets his fingers stuck in the shreds that are his blanket when trying to pull it between his pained skin and the collar. Something with sharp nails has tried to escape his dream world at night.

He breathes, shallow, shaky breaths of hot air, and tries to calm his nerves, tries to tame the beast. He's not there, those feelings are not true and he needs to get a grip. He's awake, out of his past's reach. Almost.

It's been a long time since he has seen his past self in his dreams. Most of the time he can't even remember those night horrors when he wakes up. But this one must have opened up some old wounds and now his mind is bleeding with memories.

His mom used to be very proud of him. He was a clever kid – noisy and a little hyper perhaps, always in trouble because of his curiosity, but clever. His dad told him he was going to have everything in life, anything he would ever want. And then the magic in his blood awoke and tore everything apart.

When he got his collar for the first time his mother was with him. She looked at the Magical Security Department's officer with empty eyes, her figure slightly shaking, lips moving with silent words. The younger Jack, the five-year-old kid with naivety as big as life itself, had tried to reach out and comfort his mother, tell her that he was going to be okay. His mother had flinched away from him, looking Jack with eyes full of pure disgust.

At home, everyone had known. The small village where they had lived left no room for secrets. The people on the streets knew more about you than you yourself did, placing you into those little boxes that made their life easier to control. Jack's parents locked him into his room for days, hiding him away like a dirty family secret, unable to fit him into one of those mental boxes. Even the little kid he was back then realized something was wrong but he never complained.

The next week Jack had been taken into custody by the government. He never saw his parents nor his sister and brother after that, their faces in his head turning into blurry messes. He became one of the ‘orphan kids’, abandoned by their parents because of their magical abilities. The place taught the kids discipline and misery wrapped in ugly rooms and malign words. They were forced to learn to control their powers ‘for everyone's safety’. The other kids learned while Jack struggled.

At the age of seven, Jack started school. It was the MSD's institute for Casters, the magically involved people, and for the first time in years, Jack thought he could belong somewhere. They were told that their powers should become something useful, something that would benefit everyone, something this society could be proud of. For the other kids it seemed a simple purpose. For Jack, it was an impossibility. 

Everyone found some resemblance of an explanation for their powers, a reason for their abilities. They were told they would be needed and Jack hoped, _ached_ , to hear those words, too. Instead, the teachers told him he was somehow broken, somehow without a purpose and they wouldn't be able to fix him. He went to see doctors but they told him the same, unable to do anything about the pain his power caused. The curious little kid grew out to be a loner who thought he needed fixing, naming his biggest enemy the metallic chokehold around his neck.

At the age of fifteen, when he forced his own way and started an independent life, he named his enemy again, acknowledging the feeling carved into his very soul. Hate became his friend. The dark feelings towards ordinary people made him bitter and cold but also got him through all the shit that was thrown at him. He promised himself that no one would take his life away from him like once had happened. Still, he never came to terms with his powers, never gave up the mark of a broken.  
Someone drives past Jack's apartment, music blazing. From between the half hanging blinders, Jack sees the morning sky being filled with colorful hot air balloons. It wakes him up from his catatonic state, snatches away the ghosts of his past, helping him to remember. Today is the national celebration day, the day of unison. 

Fifty years ago today the contract between fighting Casters and humans was signed. The rebellion against magic abuse ended, humans giving the Casters their freedom. The lab rats got out of the laboratories but stayed shackled, the freedom staying only as an idea.

Because of the celebration the whole nation has the day off. The city is full of festivities, magic flowing there freely, people watching it like neat circus tricks. This is the day when they all pretend. The humans pretend to care, pretend to admire and accept. The Casters pretend to enjoy, pretend to be happy. And maybe the majority of them is, adjusting into their meaningless lives restricted by others. They accept that they place a threat despite the threat being their own nature.

Do they ever even question that? Does someone ever tell a Caster child that they are valid and precious? That they really matter? That they have the right to learn about themselves, know what they are made of and what they are capable of just because? Maybe some parents do because this system definitely does not. How many of them never hear it in their lives? How many of them end up just like Jack, believing in nothingness?

Everything about this day feels stiff and slow. Putting socks on his feet takes maybe a half an hour or maybe the few minutes just feel so long, it's hard to tell. The worn out apartment with its plain walls shrinks, beginning to feel like a shoe box, suffocating Jack. He wants to leave like he has always wanted. But every other place feels just the same, suffocating him in due time.

He doesn't want to go to the streets, though. It's not his business to celebrate today. He has never believed in those lies and his anger would most likely cause problems if he did try to pretend. It's hard trying to act all joyful when all this system has ever given him is pain. The collar around his neck never lets him go, never lets him be. No one saw purpose in him but no one even cared to search for it. This festival is about achievements Jack has never had any possibilities to reach. 

Between the two bad choices, staying and suffocating or leaving and hiding, Jack decides to go with the less bad. He grabs his jacket, pulling the hood on and closing the zipper tight, trying to hide his collar. He doesn't like people noticing and staring. He's not like an animal to be looked at in the zoo.

The air outside is surprisingly warm today, like the universe itself has prepared to celebrate. It's still very early, Jack remembers his clock showing something like five past six, but an unnaturally big amount of people is already outside, busying themselves with decorations. Colorful flags and cheery placards rim the messy streets even here where life is painted with dull shades of brown and gray. Despite his better judgment Jack runs from it all to the still dark alleyways.

All the monsters of the night must have gone to their nests, hiding from the slowly increasing light of day. There's no one walking those narrow alleys coated in stamped cigarettes and crinkled trash, the silence shattered only by the sudden wind. Jack keeps his head down, face lost in the shadows of his hood, eyes scanning the asphalt under his feet. If someone comes, he doesn't want to get caught staring. He has heard stories about people getting killed for less than that.

Skin chilling scream makes Jack almost jump out of his own skin. He stops, looking around troubled, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He wouldn't care if it didn't sound like a young girl, the voice full of pain and fear, the scream choked with tears. He should leave it alone. But he's already tip-toeing his way around the dark corner and there’s no turning back.

One of the night’s monsters has wormed its way to the light, eyes full of shrapnels ready to fly. The screaming girl – maybe fifteen, definitely not even an hour older – is on her knees in front of the monster of a man, tears rolling down her cheeks and voice now just a panicked whisper. There's a blooming bruise under her eye, the man's hand still in the air, more hurt slamming at her face from his foul mouth. 

Tattoos at the side of the man's neck twist for the next hit and then Jack smells magic. The faint glimmer on the girl's skin indicates that her power has something to do with shields. She's just too panicked to control it and when the collar begins to choke her the man just laughs.

Those humans should be the ones in chains, is the last sane thought in Jack's head. The anger inside of him bursts like a well-shaken coke bottle and then everything is nothing but red.

There's the almost black red of the walls surrounding the alley, then the sick bright red of someone's skin. The light red tint on the girl's cheeks highlights her tears, her lips crimson, her hair like cotton candy. The voices paint the air purple. And then there's just the thick, splattering scarlet red, running through their fingers, painting the walls, dripping on the asphalt. It's everywhere, flooding, changing into coppery brown when dried on the glass of an unfortunately placed window. It tastes like fire and life, burns holes into Jack's skin.

There, in the middle of that all, pain isn't a feeling anymore. It becomes a part of his body when he gets a hold of his mind again. It feels like waking up. Or maybe more like coming back, existing after being nothing, feeling the weight of living after flying.

The black, burned figure of his collar rests against the wall a few feets away from him. The smoke still slowly rises from it, making small gray wisps into the air. It explains the pain that feels like someone peeled off his skin with a lighter. Next to the collar lays a tattooed hand in a pool of blood and nothing more. Everything else but Jack himself is dripping wet from the crimson death splattered around.

His body reacts to the shock slowly, one piece at a time. His fingers start shaking first, scraping against the cold and slippery stones, trying to pull him up while his brain screams escape. Then begins the shattering of his teeth, his shoulders and upper body jerking while Jack hugs himself tightly, feeling so, so cold inside.  
Tears well up, breath hitches and the few steps he manages feel like he's trying to move the earth from its orbit. Then the shock catches up on him, his legs giving up and dropping him to the ground again.

So this is what his power does, Jack thinks. This what he would like to learn to use, what his inner self is made of. Of bleeding, of murder.

Without his collar, he's suddenly scared. Yesterday he would've given anything to get it off and be free.

From the streets flow a steady stream of happy noises. Someone laughs, voices chatter, excited scream echoes around drowning into the muffled up music. Jack hopes no one decides to take a shortcut. He doesn't want people to see the bloody masterpiece of modern art behind him, notice the scratch marks on the walls. 

Jack hopes the girl is alright. He doesn’t trust himself like this, pure instinct roaming free alongside his soul but he would never hurt the innocent. And maybe the girl even gets rid of her nightmares after some time. Maybe. If it hasn't scarred her for life. 

Jack doesn’t know about his own nightmares, though. They will stick, he knows it. But the dead don’t see dreams and after the MSD catches him, he will be put to death. Opening his collar is a crime. Killing someone is an act against the whole society. 

All that is left behind is the life he never got a chance to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title from the song "Move Into Light" by Juventa


	2. if I was smart I'd make it far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for welcoming this work with open arms. I'm really happy that I get to write this fic for all of you and it makes me really want to try my best with this. These first two chapters come out this quickly because I want to give this fic a good start. Mark also makes his first appearance. So, let's continue!

”Can I have a glass of water?” Jack shouts into the empty room. He's sure someone is listening, keeping an eye on him, tracking his every move. He can see the mirrored glass of the window from where he is sitting, he's not blind. Or stupid. ”Hey!” He shouts again, getting no answer.

He has been staring at those white walls so long that it begins to feel like they stare back. Time in this room acts like a rubber band, minutes stretching into hours and snapping back to seconds. Maybe he's been waiting for days, months, a century even. 

The silence makes his ears bleed. He can't tell if the low hum coming from inside the walls surrounding him is just his imagination or an actual voice. Maybe it's real but the silence makes him doubt his senses, makes him desperate for some actual sounds to focus on. 

He doubts even when he feels a strange force eating on the magical energy in his blood, making him almost human, never silencing the animal instinct deep inside his soul. The MSD is using the technology it stole from all the Casters, when it still used all those people as guinea pigs, without shame. Most of that technology is now used for security, for binding magic and making them all 'equal'. Jack this strange feeling of separation makes suddenly anxious, forcing him to play with his own shirt to keep the itch under his skin out of his head.

Suddenly the locked door on Jack's left bursts open, finally breaking the humming silence. A man walks inside in a fancy uniform, some papers in his hands. Jack tries to keep himself from flinching when the man lays his eyes upon him. There's something really wrong with the smile he's giving, his face just sharp angles and deep shadows, his eyes cold and all seeing. The man offers Jack a glass of water and Jack catches himself from wondering if there's a reason why the water inside hasn't frozen up yet. 

”I'm commander Alexius,” the man starts while sitting down, his voice as sharp as his features. ”You're here because of your – ”

”I know what I did,” Jack interrupts, not wanting to hear those words aloud. He doesn't want to process that thing now, if ever. Part of himself still thinks it was just a dream, a king of all of his nightmares. And now it's more about what's coming, anyways. Not about what already has been. ”I'm just wondering why I'm not dead yet.”

”Are you that willing to die, Jack?” The commander asks, his eyes now hidden, voice mocking him. Like he knows that there has been a time when Jack wanted to die. ”No. But that is what you people do; kill Casters when they make a small slip from the right path,” Jack answers, trying to keep his voice steely, putting some irony in those words. Alexius makes only a small annoyed huff.

”Would you call killing someone a small slip, Jack?” he asks, his half-hearted smile changing into an amused one, making his mouth look like a slitted cut under his nose. Jack shudders, putting his glass on the table, the water in it untouched. ”No, and you wouldn't either,” Jack speaks slowly, unsure about what to expect. ”So, I'm asking again: Why am I not dead yet?”

”Because we need you with something,” the commander finally answers, leaning his elbows against the table and pressing his fingers together. His sharp, icy gray eyes find Jack's own and the smirk disappears from his face. ”I'm here to offer you a deal, Jack. Consider this as special treatment.” Something in the way the commander keeps repeating Jack's name makes him uncomfortable and doubt about 'special' meaning the same as 'good for you'. 

”What do you want with me?” Jack demands, frowning, trying to make sense of those words. What could the MSD want with him? To make some tests? That's a possibility, Jack wonders, head full of imaginary horrors. No one would notice that he's gone. No one would care enough to start asking questions. He would rot in some cage in some laboratory, head all messed up and body broken. 

Suddenly he feels scared and because of that relieved about these walls keeping his powers in check. If his instinct could kick in right now, he's not sure what he would do. He'd maybe attack this man and seal his own destiny. Or the other option could be him curling up into a ball, losing all of his dignity in front of this icy bastard. And he would never want to turn his back on this guy, afraid of not seeing him while in his presence. 

”We are interested in your powers, Jack. The MSD is ready to pardon you if you let us train you as one of our men and use you to complete a fully fledged military mission.” It is a good thing he placed the glass away when he did. Now it would shatter to the floor while he's choking on his own saliva. This must be the best joke this universe has come up with. ”You think I'm going to work for you? Just like that? Everything you've done forgotten?” Jack spits the words out, slightly furious this time. He isn't some tool to be used, not now or ever. Not like so many else. 

”Think about it,” the man continues, his face screaming convenience, ignoring Jack's outburst. ”You would have a permission to work with your power, learn about it all you want, and then you would handle one easy mission before returning to your everyday life.” Jack knows there must be a catch. Something that makes this not worth it. The sudden anger inside of him stays like that, just burning inside. 

”Let's say I accept your offer. What would the mission be like?”

”Classified”, the man says, shuffling his papers. ”You get the details when your training is complete. We can't have you telling around stuff that would harm us.”

”If I don't accept, I'm dead. Who am I supposed to tell about this mission? To the guards in the prison I end up in?” Jack questions the man's logic. Who would listen to some unreasonable blabbering of someone under sentence of death?

”We can't be sure. There can be people that could use the information you have. We won't take any risks.”

Right. Jack sighs, considering his options. Declining will lead to his death, something he has already accepted, but what he's still not ready to go through. Accepting would make him the MSD's toy, a weapon to be used in this 'mission', something he swore he would never be. All those children who got their permission to live from this organization, who got their purpose out of working for this society... He never wanted that, never saw any worth in that kind of life. 

But at the same time, this would be his only chance to finally learn to use his powers. The want inside his soul, the hunger for completeness wakes up like a monster, its pleas echoing around Jack's head. He could be finally himself, find a purpose. He could be fixed. 

He knows he lost this fight before it even started. 

”I want you and the whole MSD to promise me one thing before I accept,” Jack says with his most certain voice, looking the man straight into those unyielding steel-like eyes. The commander spreads his arms like he could offer Jack anything and everything, say he only a word. ”When the mission is done, you let me go. There's nothing more. No sudden extra things to do, no coming back for more. I'm gone and that's that.”

”It's set and done once you sign,” Alexius promises, nodding sharply and looking triumphant while doing so. Then, he offers a paper in front of Jack, tapping at its bottom with his long fingers. ”There. This contract confirms that we had your approval on this, you will be under our supervision during your half a year with us and after the mission is done or you die doing it, we consider you to be just a normal citizen again.”

Dying while doing all this shouldn't surprise him. He's dead either way, this is his only ticket to the world of the living and it only takes him midway. So, grimly, he signs his name on the empty line with the pen Alexius offers him. It feels like he's giving away more than his freedom, like he'd promised more than there is for him to give. 

Alexius takes the paper with eager hands, nodding to someone behind the one-way glass and then standing up. Two black suited men walk inside, looking at Jack expectantly. ”Shall we go then?” Alexius asks, more from himself than Jack. Jack rises from his seat with shaky legs, looking at the two men who lead his way to the door and out to the familiarly white hallway. The commander starts walking forward and Jack follows, perplexed and stumbling, squeezing his jacket in his hands. He almost needs to run to stay in step with the man in front of him.

”What about my clothes? My apartment? My job? My...” Jack asks, wondering halfway through the sentence what exactly does he even have. He has nothing too personal or valuable in his apartment, which is shitty anyways. Maybe his laptop, but there's nothing special about it, nothing important saved up on its hard drive. And his job? It was just a way to make ends meet. But still, that was his life and he needs to do things before he can step out of it, right? 

”Our men will take care of it,” Alexius speaks over his shoulder, never slowing down. ”They will bring your belongings to the training facility. Your employer will be notified about you quitting and your apartment will be taken care of. If you wish, we can find you a new one after all this.” 

Giving up all of that which he used so many years to gather so easily should worry him. But it does not, he's ready to leave, eager even. A small nod and it's decided. No turning back now, not even if it gets bumpy.

~~

”This is going to be your first training mission. You've been informed about your trainee being a Caster, right?”

”Yes, sir. I got his file. But how can you be so sure about him accepting the contract if you don't mind me asking?”

”He wants to know about his power, which we have forbidden thus far. He can't help but accept. His curiosity damns him.”

”Is it true that he's as powerful as his file says?”

”What of we know, yes. It's your job now to drag the full potential out of him. Don't disappoint.”

”Yes, sir!”

The phone call had come hours ago, pushing Mark's life from its carefully selected tracks. He had joined the MSD as soon as he'd turned 18 and since then he had known what his future would hold: just one normal security mission after another, paperwork on spare time, training on a daily basis. He'd joined to serve as a police officer specializing to magic usage and continued as a part of the special forces keeping all the people safe.

And then this chance had come his way, this possibility to do something even more. 

So here he is, settling down to his new life inside these white painted walls. The people from MSD's management facility had led him to this training center and into his room, which looks more like an apartment than a simple bedroom-for-one he has gotten himself used to. The small bar beside the kitchen corner is a nice touch, a luxury even, for someone like him. 

Last night he had been sleeping on a concrete floor in some old, half build storage somewhere outside the town, one eye open for any trouble, a gun beside his backpack pillow. Today the black and white decorations around the room feel too clean and elegant to be meant for him. 

Emptying his duffel bag takes only a minute, its containments filling only two shelves from his new closet. Everything else in the mostly black bedroom is left untouched, though he checks his gun once before putting it under his pillow, easy for his right arm to reach. He doesn't even remember the days without it anymore. Without the constant state of being ready to action. Maybe he was supposed to be born with the gun, bullets inside his veins.

Then he leaves again, almost excited to get to explore the place he already knows inside out. It has always been a part of his work to just know. Files and files have passed his hands, been imprinted on his brain. Now one of those files is the layout of this huge facility, build only for him and his partner. Mostly for his partner, though, because no one knows what is going to happen when that power is unleashed. 

This Caster is something special, something completely different compared to all the other Casters he has met during his life, who he has seen spreading destruction all over themselves. He knows all about this guy, all that can be said in plain sentences and short number sequences. But he doesn't know him. No one does, not even the guy himself. And it puts Mark on edge, annoys him to the maximum because that makes this all so damn risky.

The training room is just a big hall full of equipment of all sort. Everything necessary for quite a gym, weapons, training targets, protective gears. There's also doors to smaller rooms made for different exercises, some of them easy to figure out, some complex and weird. Mark slowly walks through them, waiting, already hating the silence the big space around him envelopes him in. It makes him paranoid and his skin prickles. 

”Mark? You there?” a voice crackles through the radio given him, making him jump. He recognizes Jared's voice, one of the other soldiers of MSD. They worked together a few months back. ”Open the door.” One deep breath and he turns around, walking to the main door only he has access to. He punches in the code to the panel beside the door and after a static huff it opens up, revealing Jared in his uniform, staring intently to Mark. His bald head and tattooed neck bring back memories. After a second he smiles. ”I brought your partner.”

Mark's eyes snap to the guy behind Jared, first noticing the spike of green hair, then the stern blue eyes. He's smaller than Mark thought, slim and all bones, something oh so innocent in that hard expression. 

There's no killer inside that head, looking him into eyes. There can't be. But the pictures Mark saw; the streams of blood, the ripped up body pieces, they say otherwise. And again Mark feels like he's on edge, like something tries to poke at his nerves. The facts don't match and he feels lost. No one has ever made him feel like that, like he can't figure them out even if he sees them all clear. 

After changing a few words with Mark, Jared leaves, restoring the silence. Blue eyes keep observing around, the look on the Caster guy's face filled with child-like curiosity. Mark is not sure if the guy even realizes how easily his guard drops, how easily his eyes give him away. 

”I'm Mark,” he introduces himself, extending an awaiting arm out for his new partner to shake. Mark already knows his name but this act is not for knowledge, it's to inspire trust. The blue eyes harden again, the guy staring at Mark's hand suspiciously. He has never failed this fast. ”Jack,” he finally answers incisively, never touching Mark's hand and instead staring him straight into eyes. His hands clench around his jacket, knuckles white.

”I want to make one thing clear,” Jack hisses, still staring like he's going to make a hole into Mark's skull, straightening himself to his whole length. Crazy, green hair makes him look taller but he's still shorter than Mark. ”You're not my supervisor and I'm not your subordinate. We're partners and that means you're not allowed to boss me around like your fucking bitch.” 

Actually, their relationship should be something close to that but Mark doesn't point it out. He nods, clicking his tongue for the vulgar words. Trust issues would be putting it mildly. But hey, that's what you get when life betrays you at the age of five.

They speak even less after that, which practically means nothing at all. Mark only explains the basics in a hushed voice, telling about their weekly food service, someone bringing them the ready-to-heat meals and some basic groceries, leaving everything else for them to do. 

The walking in silence feels complex, their steps never falling into the same rhythm. Jack can still be caught curious and wondrous, familiarly innocent when Mark shows him around. He touches everything, glides his fingers on walls and furniture like he's not sure this is real. Mark knows the feeling of not being part of the world around yourself so he just stands aside, saying nothing. 

In Jack's new room the owner himself looks lost for a minute, hugging his jacket, just watching everything. Mark knows this is like moving from a match box to an actual house for this guy. Jack's got even less stuff than Mark, nothing to fill this room with even though his belongings are scheduled to arrive at tomorrow noon. For Mark owning only the minimum was a choice. For Jack, the choice was made by his nature, written into his genetic code. He never stood a chance.

”I'll see you tomorrow morning at seven,” Mark finally says, deciding to break the silence. It's going to be a long way until this huge place will feel comfortable, every echo only strengthening the sound of emptiness. Jack nods, still staring at the opposite wall and the unfamiliar books lined up on the shelves. He only moves when Mark offers him a pile of training uniforms, taking them with shaky hands and a frown on his face. Golden glint flashes inside those baby blues. 

Then Mark leaves, closing the door behind him and letting his partner adjust his thoughts in between those all new things. This is not going to be easy but they're bound to try now. They have one wild beast to tame and an impossible amount of trust to be found. Fortunately, the contract includes them both working towards those goals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title from the song "Blood In the Cut" by K.Flay


	3. leave without a trace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter but it's been a while since the last one so I think it's fine. I'm also currently studying for my entrance exams and I haven't had time or energy to write. I will update this fic more as soon as I can.

The first day feels like jumping from a plane. You have no idea what you're doing or where you're going but in all hell do you wish to scream the whole way through it. At the end, the chances are that you're alive and maybe even yourself. 

The black, turtle-necked t-shirt feels cool against Jack's skin, hiding his collar perfectly. His what turned out to be a few hours short day of separation from this metallic bastard is long lost now. He's chained again, controlled. But the first time in his life he's about to be set loose, break free. Ironically, now he fears what might happen. 

He squeezes his hands into fists and opens them again, frustrated and nervous while walking down the hallway to the training hall. This place feels like its own universe, wholly isolated from everything and everyone. There's only Jack and, on the other side of this huge building, his partner Mark.

Trusting that guy is part of the deal but Jack can't quite feel it. There's something behind those brown eyes, hiding inside that black haired head. Jack is sure the guy knows more than he's willing to share, lying through his teeth. His voice is just too smooth, his gestures too stiff to be real. Mark's the perfect personification of a soldier but something is missing. He'd been too understanding when Jack felt like falling. The big white space that is his home now had been sucking on him like a black hole and the guy had just been standing there, watching, giving invisible support. His eyes had told Jack that he knew exactly what Jack saw on those walls filled with foreign stuff. 

For a second Jack's self-control had slipped and the animal inside of him had stared at Mark like prey. He had smelled... delicacy. And that had been weird coming from a man like Mark.

Rushing into the training hall reveals Mark's sweating back covered by a black t-shirt, the guy already doing push-ups like there's no tomorrow. Jack hesitates, opening his mouth but falling silent. He has no idea what he's supposed to do. His twisting fingers try to find some pockets to hide into but these black training pants don't have any. Instead, he ends up rubbing his thigh and biting his lip while waiting for Mark to notice he has company. 

His partner is the first one to talk, his back still turned to Jack: ”You should warm yourself up. I don't need you spraining some muscles over this.” His voice is like smoke, smooth and sticky. He sounds neutral but when Jack doesn't move, he gets a half a smile thrown over a shoulder. It's like a threat dressed in shining velvet. Jack just squints his eyes, walking rebelliously far away from Mark to start.

A few warming jumps get his blood circulating, waking up the still sleeping muscles. Flexing feels like he's trying to pop his bones out of their places but he's not complaining. It's been so long since he has done anything sporty. He doesn't go to the gym, doesn't train, doesn't do running. Occasional small walks he takes – or at least used to take before all this – are the only physical training he has done in ages. There's just no time. He's too occupied with surviving, getting forward. His job, the anxiety his power causes and the whole weight of living take too much energy.

His heart speeds up its pace when Jack suddenly feels a hand on his shoulder, his form still bent up over his leg to flex his side. He's up quicker than he ever thought possible, covering his chest with his arms and baring his teeth. He can feel the instinct to fight or run kicking in, the power inside his veins sparkling and clashing with the collar. He bites his tongue to keep himself from moaning in pain, staring Mark and his baffled expression. 

This guy is careless with his touch, and Jack's about to chomp his head off for that. _Fuck._

”Don't – Don't touch me like that,” Jack breathes out, sucking in his panic and his inner beast. Fear creeps across his skin, his vision turning red from the edges. ”Like what?” Mark questions him, his voice surprisingly compassionate like he could possibly understand. Deep breaths, Jack tells himself. The redness in his eyes doesn't disappear. ”So suddenly. Carelessly. I don't – I'm not used to that.” Jack sounds like a child, petulant and hateful. But it's not Mark's fault, it's just Jack being overly sensitive about his personal space.

He can't admit to himself the fact that it isn't completely about personal space anymore. Now it's about him defending his mind from the torture called 'memory' and 'possible outcomes'.

”Well, alright then,” Mark finally mumbles, scratching his head awkwardly. Then he seems to get over it and the soldier returns, back straight and eyes assured. It rips off his personality, making Mark more like a robot than a human being. Jack wonders what that personality actually is like. Soft, decides Jack's mind. Nothing like that, he tells himself 0.5 seconds later, slapping his mental self for being so stupid. This guy is nothing like soft, and proof enough should be his wish to work for the evil. The MSD was never a place for empathy, only obedience, and submission. 

”Let's start with some basics and continue from there,” Mark declares, slightly nodding. He explains what it's going to be like for Jack during the next two months: The first month is about physical training, for Jack to gain some muscles and agility, to get strength, speed, and stamina. It's about hand-to-hand -combat and self-defense. It's about Jack learning the basics so he can handle himself anywhere and anytime. 

The second month adds some more tactical aspects to that. Mark is going to teach Jack fighting tactics, tell him what to take into consideration while in a fight, what to think of the mission. There's going to be a few words about bombs and grenades, how he can use them if he needs to, how to handle them getting in his way. And then there's the actual weapons, the new parts of Jack's body. Mark thinks that it is important for Jack to learn how to use some of the most basic ones: daggers, knives, a gun and something called Bo which ends up being a long wooden stick. Mark twirls it in his hands like an expert, Jack feeling stupid and clumsy in comparison.

Not a word about Jack's powers falls from Mark's lips the whole time. When Jack bluntly asks about it, hiding his fears with a severe look, Mark's first answer is a complete silence. Their eyes meet, something dark floating in Mark's brown irises. He licks his lips. ”We will start training with your power during the third month,” Mark finally answers dryly. It's like he holds something back and Jack would like to know what it is. ”I hear a 'but' in there,” Jack points out, challenging his partner. He has all the rights to know, fuck the protocol at this point. 

”We don't know your power yet,” Mark says slowly like he's trying to balance between what's allowed and what's not. Jack cocks his eyebrow, making Mark to huff with annoyance. ”Look, Jack, there is nothing like you out there. No one we could have studied till now. We can't go into this blindfolded, without knowing the risks.” 

What a way to tell a man he's a freak among freaks, even for the government. Jack could almost laugh but suddenly he feels so alone, so different. _Too_ different, like he's never going to fit. 

Will this feeling disappear after he learns what his power is like? After he gets to know the animal living inside of him, gets to settle things with it? Or maybe the loneliness is a part of him already, imprinted into his bones. Maybe everyone was right about him, that he was a mistake. An anomaly. 

Jack just nods, unwilling to stumble to his own words. There's nothing to say because he understands.

They leave the conversation to that, Mark leading them to stand in the middle of the huge space that is the main training hall. Jack just stands there, feeling out of place, the empty air around him, walls out of his hands' reach. He has always been one for protecting his back, sticking as a wallflower. Never the center of attention, always the outcast. He feels safe like that when people can't walk around him and _see._

Mark makes that small round, making Jack uncomfortable and twitchy, spectating him like an interesting specimen. His face tells nothing, lips mumbling pieces of words and half pronounced syllables. And then his arm moves, swinging at Jack with utmost speed, looking like a hammer. Mark aims at Jack's head but only gets his shoulder, thanks to Jack's quick reflexes. Pain shoots through him like acid, making him grunt and scream: ”What the fuck?!”

The answer is the second fist in the gut, leaving Jack breathless. Next one he dodges by luck, the moving air ruffling his hair. Anger and confusion spark his veins, making the collar around his neck burn, probably lighting his eyes with bestiality. Mark doesn't even flinch when Jack tries to kick him, the bastard only catching Jack's foot in his hand like nothing. Next moment Jack is on the ground, face forward, Mark's knee burying itself into his back. Breathing feels like swallowing fire. 

”First we train some parrying,” Mark states like he's been having a normal conversation this whole time. Jack tries to move but Mark puts more pressure on his back, gluing him to the floor. It smells like cleanser, musk, and citrus. Mark behind him smells like sweat, their breaths mixing. 

Slowly Mark lets go of Jack, getting onto his feet with one swift movement. Jack growls and hisses, swears under his breath and drags his sore ass from the floor. ”There's two things about blocking,” Mark continues, putting up two of his fingers. ”First, use your enemy's power to your advantage.” The first finger gets a small tap. ”And the second, you need to make a decision.”

The next attack starts with a kick, aimed at Jack's knee. He only has a second to react, shifting his weight from foot to foot, getting it away from Mark's leg so that he doesn't stumble when the hit comes. The pain makes him take a quick breath through his nose, already feeling the bruise forming under his skin. He tries a quick punch, Mark blocking it with a risen arm, making the fist go right past the other's shoulder. ”Either you block it,” Mark breathes at his face, brown eyes like tornados. ”Or you control the damage.” 

Jack jumps out of the hit's way, breathing heavily. Mark's next movement sweeps Jack's feet from under him and he falls, trying to crawl away from the next hit. But Mark doesn't give him any slack, he just throws a hit after another, Jack trying to block a part of them while most of them make damage on their way. One he keeps from hitting his ear and ringing inside his head by lifting his both arms, feeling the weight of Mark's well-trained muscles. ”Block with the side of your arm, the bone,” Mark advises, eyes still full of storms and lightning. ”That hurts less.”

The kick comes from the side, just under Jack's ribs. He howls, his power flickering under his skin like a snake. Then Mark grabs Jack by his neck, pinning him to the floor. Jack squirms, clawing the firm hand curling around his throat and against the burning metal. He tries a kick but it lays flat, Mark stopping it with his knee. 

Struggling feels helpless and fear bangs Jack's chest, trying to stop his furiously beating heart. A thought violates his brain, screaming at him to get away: _I'm going to die._ It doesn't make sense but for a moment he's sure that Mark is a hired killer, here to act a role and then kill Jack, make it long and painful. Like it was for that guy. Like it should be for him because he's a monster, _a kil –_

”Again,” Mark growls, drawing his hand off. Then he gathers his weight off of Jack, dusting his pants, giving his arm a flexing roll. The dangerous lightning inside his eyes returns to an excited spark. And then he offers Jack a hand, helping him to get up and regain his balance when rising up too fast makes his head spin. ”Never let someone hit you to the ground and get on top of you. When you're there, the game is most likely over.” 

The cold sweat on Jack's skin lingers but he nods. Then Mark's at it again, landing two small punches to Jack's chest, then one hard kick to his upper thigh. Jack keeps the whine to himself, gritting his teeth and trying to move around so that he's not so easy to target. ”Read your opponent,” Mark whispers, taking a few steps to the right, Jack tracking his movements with his eyes. ”They tell you what they are going to do next. Just keep looking,” Mark ends the sentence with a quick fist to Jack's shoulder, dropping his weight to his legs and making himself smaller. There's no place for Jack to strike and he swears in his mind. 

”Maybe it's their eyes,” Mark continues, taking a quick look at Jack's feet, giving him a second to react. The low kick hits air right at where Jack's feet were, making him grin. Mark gives half a grin back, ready for the next strike. ”Or maybe it's their muscles, tensing up here and there.” Jack squints, notices Mark's legs tensing, his hands making small movements. Next one is going to be a straight one to Jack's stomach, trying to double him over, he's sure about it. He lifts his hands, steadies himself. 

And then Mark makes his move, doing a feint with his hands when he actually goes for a sharp kick right into Jack's left side. Jack struggles to keep his balance, Mark taking advantage of that and making a swift movement so he can get around to Jack's back. Jack tries to twirl around but Mark's faster, hooking his hand around Jack's shoulders, making him fall on his own. ”Your opponent knows you're watching. They're going to use that,” Mark speaks, hair falling into his eyes. Jack just growls at his face, making the man smile. ”Again,” he commands. 

Then they're up, Mark looking like he's doing what he knows best, Jack feeling frustrated and lost. But he tries, tries to remember and learn and succeed. Like he has always done. Catching Mark's eyes moving he dodges, the kick wrinkling the hem of his shirt, then pushing the feet down with his hands. He tries to shove his elbow to Mark's now vulnerable side but Mark sees it coming, blocking it with a sharp elbow of his own. Bone hits bone and it stings. 

”Just focus on blocking,” Mark hisses to Jack's ear, his voice steel and fire. Jack makes a small unapproving sound, mumbling ”Fuck you” so silently that Mark can't hear it. He tries to handle the pinch he put himself into but Mark uses the chance. A knee finds its way into Jack's unprotected stomach, making him gag and gasp, turning his vision a blur of black and white dots. He can feel his own heart running like crazy, his breathing uneven and rapid, his body hurting. Mark's breath warms his cheek, disappearing before Jack hits the cold floor again. Bruises form under his black clothes. 

When his vision finally returns, he can feel the burning inside of himself. His blood is screaming, his skin itching and something big and lethal is growing inside his soul trying to express his feelings. The air smells like ashes and melted metal. Mark stares at him with appraising eyes, curious but wary, ready but still waiting. 

Nothing happens. Jack feels himself shaking under the pressure but finally, he catches his breath, calms his heart, gets a hold of his emotions. ”Again,” Mark demands after a while, his voice sounding more and more authorized every time. He slowly gets used to commanding others, commanding Jack. Oh boy is he gonna realize Jack is not to be commanded. And still, he stands up, ready to go again, obstinacy burning in his eyes. 

When Jack hits the floor for the tenth or the twentieth or the fucking hundredth time, he finally snaps. Mark looks so smug standing there, invincible and on a so god damned high level that Jack has no way to reach him. ”Again,” Mark just says, already readying himself for the next round. Jack glares at him, huffing at the warming air but not getting up.

Brown eyes shine sharply, the look in them questioning and inciting. Like, if Mark stares long enough, Jack will jump up and punch him in to face because he would want to wipe that shit eating ghost of a grin from his lips. But he's not going to do that. He's just a guy, not a robot like Mark and he can't go on endlessly. His body hurts, his lungs feel like burning and his neck is throbbing under the metal, his skin prickling with little needles. He didn't come here to become someone's personal punching back.

” _Again_ ,” Mark says, this time his voice more commanding, deeper. He takes a step towards Jack who just stares back, still sitting on the ground. ”Fuck you,” he spits, rubbing at his hurting side. ” _Fuck. You._ ” Mark cocks a brow, surprised by the words. He's not quitting yet but Jack is, thank you very fucking much. He tries to stand up with as much grace as he can muster, swallowing the small pained noises he wants to make. ”I'm not doing this anymore,” Jack hisses, even the animal inside of him feeling beaten. Exhausted. Dead. ”Find someone else to beat into a pulp.”

Mark crosses his arms on his chest, giving Jack a disappointed look. But Jack doesn't look back when he leaves, doesn't care about the weight of eyes on him. The training hall's door slams itself shut behind him, making the silence in the hallway scream. A small smirk plays on his lips. This is going to be about earning not forcing. And Mark's got a long way to go before he earns anything from Jack.

Someone else would count this as Jack running away to lick his wounds. Maybe Mark does think so and is smiling for himself, enjoying his little game of survival. Maybe he's not and Jack actually showed him something new and unexpected. A rebel to the bone.

Jack doesn't care. After eating like a hungry animal, he tosses his leftovers outside his room. The creamy sauce gets splattered everywhere, dripping from the metal covered walls. Mark had told him to drop his garbage down the rubbish chute but if he wants that to happen, he can as well do it himself. That clean freak will not tolerate this; someone dirtying his hallways. And how does Jack know that? By just looking at the guy. He's a soldier, gotten used to neat and organized, everything in their rightful places. 

Poking someone in the correct places is what Jack has been doing his whole life. When he himself got only shit from everyone else, he learned to protect his heart. Being prickly kept people away, making sarcasm and shouting the only forms of communication. Leaving was easier when no one kept asking after you.

But now he's stuck here, no direction to run to. Before sleeping he wonders if rebelling without a point is rebelling at all.

~~

This place has no windows. It feels like a huge metallic cube, made to keep him inside and the world at bay. Only the lights embed to the ceiling in every room indicate the change of time, mimicking the moves of the sun and it's increasing and dying light. 

Maybe to compensate the lack of glass and scenery, the rooms are full of paintings. Big, wall filling views and tiny, one flower or one cloud containing pictures try to bring the life inside. They look so real, so lively, that Jack can almost smell the sea and rain. Almost. The frozen moments made with watercolors can't replace the feeling of looking outside, watching the world move on. 

But someone is looking in, watching them through cold eyes. Everywhere Jack looks he sees small cameras, their black lenses staring back like fish eyes. There are no secrets in this place, no personal space, no hiding from everything. He doesn't know what they are after but there definitely is someone watching, sharp eyes fixated on him. 

He wonders if Mark knows. 

With that thought in mind, he goes to face his partner. Confronting Mark again after acting like a spoiled brat makes Jack's fingers twitch. He expects a lecture, maybe a cold shoulder, maybe revenge. What he gets is nothing. 

The brown eyes don't even blink when Mark stares at Jack. There are no heavy thoughts in the air, no unspoken words hanging between them. A glance towards Jack's bruised arms makes Mark nod approvingly, his face telling Jack to toughen up. Blood boils and from then on it's just a day among others.

On the obstacle course, Jack is about to give up just by seeing it. When Mark tells him ”it's about to get worse” he groans, his head plastered with the word desperation. He's desperate to get away or to be better suited for this, be more than a giraffe on skates. It's humiliating to fail over and over again. He needs far more speed, and far better reflexes to beat this monster of a course. 

For his surprise, though, Mark tells him he's doing good and that no one is born a winner. Mark _encourages_ him. His eyes light up whenever Jack makes some progress, his arm always reached out for Jack to grab after falling down. The vicious course feels like a mutual enemy, for them both to beat down and get rid of. Jack wants to get through it, figure out its secrets, whereas Mark is the strength required to not give up midway. 

It feels almost like teamwork. The whole thought is obscure. 

On the hundredth try, Jack finally pulls through. The feeling is amazing, like he could run on top of a mountain in seconds and scream his lungs out. For courtesy he keeps his feet on the ground, trying to hide his big smile behind sweaty locks and scrabbling fingers. Mark still notices, smiling back with his warm eyes, face unmoving. There's a lot appreciated moment of silence, their breaths making the air sticky. 

It's just a moment. The sweat has no time to cool on Jack's skin, his muscles have no time to revert. Mark is already there pushing him forward, cutting the sticky and heavy air. Those brown eyes show pride in them, some child-like sparkling that makes you feel like a giant, big enough to face the world alone. A feeling that makes you foolish and at the end forces you to fall down, cuts your imaginary wings, because it has no value. Not when it comes from an enemy. 

Then Mark starts running. He grabs Jack's wrist, pulling him behind himself and making him stagger to his feet. Jack needs a few minutes to grudgingly fall into the rhythm with Mark. He stares and growls, already out of breath, muscles burning. Every step hurts and hurts and hurts. Still, he soon realizes Mark isn't holding his arm anymore, he's running on his own and it feels like a loss in this battle of wills. 

It becomes a routine. Every day they run, each time a little bit more, a little bit faster. Each time they finally, finally stop, Mark's back vanishing from Jack's sight, Jack feels like throwing up. His knees buckle and whole body trembles, lungs are rasped out like overused pipes. He falls to the ground like a broken doll, screwing his eyes shut to feel steady again. To feel more than a big pool of aching muscles and breaking limbs. 

Each time Mark hauls him up only after a few seconds and tells him: ”Don't fall to the ground right after you stop! You need to even your breaths first!” But it takes too long to get his breathing steady. Too long for his legs to support him, too long for his body to not give up under his weight. The only thing keeping him up is Mark's arm around his chest and his skin burns. He's not that weak. Not under those brown eyes. 

Fifteen minutes later they share a meal. It's made of silence and wary looks but they manage. Mark has turned one of the equipment boxes upside down and is sitting on it, elbows pressing against his knees and legs looking like trunks, rooted to the ground. His eyes are piercing gray under the lights, still hiding things Jack feels like he should know underneath. 

Unintentionally Jack holds his plastic plate so that his food is safe under his arm, and even when he puts the plate on the floor, he keeps his leg between it and his partner. Mark has no intention of stealing his food, Jack knows that in his head, but it's an old habit yet hard to die. 

There was a time when being slow meant going hungry for rest of the day. In school, no one cared who ate the food once it was served. Sometimes Jack got to eat half of his lunch before hell broke loose. Sometimes it was just a mouthful. After a year in there, he learned to keep his ground and fight for his right to have what was his to begin with. His power helped then because no one was brave enough to face the demon boy for mere food. 

”No throwing the plate around?” Mark asks, making a small noise into his hand. Jack just grunts when he stands up and disappears from the training hall. His ears are burning but he carries his deeds with as much pride as he can muster in that situation. This day changes nothing. Neither does Mark's attempts to push him forward gently this time. 

On the door of his own room, Jack realizes the small sound Mark made was _a chuckle_. He had no idea the soldier guy was capable of such things and, oh god, does he hate the sound now. Handling a weapon wearing a human face was one thing but an actual person? Maybe that something hiding in those eyes is a soul, not a secret.

He would be fucking delusional if he believed in that even for a second. 

In his room, he slumps down onto the sofa, too tired to even think about showering just yet. Instead, he starts going through his stuff packed in one sad looking bag. The bag has the MSD's logo on it and Jack cringes at it, emptying the containments of the bag next to himself and then stuffing the bag under the sofa. 

A pile of clothes. Two so worn out books that their covers are falling off, rasped and old, pages wrinkled and torn, full of yellow fingerprints. One photo, only one that Jack has ever owned. Everything that is left of his old life, of the boy he used to be and was about to grow up as, is in that picture. 

The picture of a house with blooming garden and a white fence was his home, once, so long time ago. When he was forced to leave, he took the picture with him. He thought, back then, that he would return and the picture was for him to remember. Now, it brings back only hollow memories, ghosts of the things already happened. Things that 'were' but will never 'are' again.

He only spares a few pieces of clothing from that pile that has been his everything so many years. A blue sweater he got with his first paycheck, the color faded but still so, so blue. A green t-shirt his friend once gave to him, the gesture still warming him even if it hurts all the same. A pair of black skinny jeans and gray colleges. A dark red beanie he wears those days his hair is a mess, which is more often than not. 

He also spares one of the two books, even though he already knows the story by heart. He cries every time for those last two pages, breaks his heart for a story about life ripped apart and then stitched back together again. There's something about the feeling of knowing, being sure about what will be. Those pages will never change and the bittersweet happily ever after will always happen, like it's supposed to. The happiness is written to stone even after so much misery.

Slowly Jack moves to his laptop, phases a few moments before sitting down on a barstool. There's nothing in it, he knows that already. Nothing more than a file full of pictures, from that time he got his hands on a camera. He had it for a day, lent it from a local library and just spent his whole day walking around, taking photos of everything he came across. None of himself, none of the places he knew, that were considered _his_. He didn't want to trap such impurities inside the frame, make them last forever. So instead he went as far as he could, took photos of trees and clouds and cars passing by. The sunset looked like pure gold through the lens and he was someone else.

Now those over 500 pictures stare back at him, mocking him, staying hidden. He can't look at them ever again but he remembers the sunset. 

Gathering the pile of disposable clothes in his arms, Jack slips out the door and to the hallway. The silence follows him, ever present. He dumps the clothes down the rubbish chute, thinking about the hours he has spent working to get all those, to get food, an apartment, a life. 

The same thing every morning, walking to the bus stop, getting to the factory, staring at the filled up conveyor belts, packing stuff. That factory had consumed him as soon as he turned 18 and it had taken 5 years out of his life. The salary was too small, working hours too long, but he didn't have an option. No other employer wanted him, a useless, purposeless Caster with zero capabilities. He was trapped because he wanted to live. 

Now he's starting over and he wishes, trusts to the promise that MSD will secure him a changed life after all this. After he has given a part of his soul to the devil. Jack snorts to that and turns his back to the black hole in the wall where his property has disappeared. 

When he returns to his room, the picture of a long lost home is still there. He knows he's not going to get rid of it this time either, still somehow clinging to the past while he wishes he didn't have any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title from the song "Into the Wild" by Johnossi


	4. we are the lost ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter took a while. I've been busy, yes, but also I've been editing this chapter like crazy, rewriting some parts over and over again and adding some things that I feel like I've forgotten to mention. Now it works better, I think. I hope. Enjoy!

The nightmares don't disappear but after a one and a half weeks in the facility, it gets worse. Before that, it's just flashes, feelings of burning and choking, images of blood and the smell of death stuck inside Jack's throat every time he jerks awake. He barely remembers it all afterward, waking up covered in cold sweat and a scream echoing inside his head but nothing concrete, nothing even close to _real_. 

Until it's so real that it doesn't feel like a dream anymore. 

He can't control his body, his shaking hands or his legs walking forward in the darkness without his consent. He recognizes the black alleys, those same alleys that surrounded his home and hid the monsters of the night, nested those beasts he had learned to fear. His skin is tingling, something inside of him burning like a bonfire, blue flames licking the insides of his eyelids, making his breath hitch. 

The darkness is colored in red, his mind filled with anger and rage and blood lust. Without control, Jack just screams, tries to stop this all wrecking train fallen off its tracks and fails, miserably. His body is all sharp claws and bared fangs, the instincts of an animal burning in his throat and making him want to puke, the wish for death and destruction driving the beast insane and causing Jack to almost cry. He's one of them, one of the feared beasts and even worse. 

His soul shatters to pieces when he sees it, the end of this all, the ruiner of his humanity. And all he can do is watch.

Under one single streetlight stands a black figure, back turned to Jack, small and fragile. The play of light and shadow on their skin is like the wind made visible, the flickering light making it look like a storm. The animal inside of Jack is in a frenzy, howling without a sound, excited. Jack tries to shout a warning, begging for his own body to stop, memories of blood and ripped off body pieces filling his mind, making his heart tremble. 

But the beast doesn't care, it attacks its prey, enjoying the hunt and its reward. Soft skin under the feral claws tears off like paper, the warm blood streaming like ink. The figure – a girl, _a woman_ – screams, Jack only seeing the long brown hair and tears trickling down her jaw and neck. She begs, soft voice whimpering inside Jack's hazy mind, the voice sounding familiar somehow. 

And then he knows, even though he can't see her face, can't remember what it looked like. It's the smell that betrays her identity when everything else has been long forgotten. The smell that used to lull Jack to sleep when he was small, when everything was still normal, good. Her voice is just a ghost and Jack sobs inside his fleshy prison, repeating inside his head what he can't accept. _Mom, mom._

This woman betrayed her own son, betrayed Jack when he would have needed her the most but he has never wished for her death. She was scared, Jack understands that now because he has been scared, too, and she was protecting her life the only way she knew possible. Jack despises her but doesn't hate, doesn't want revenge and he fights, tries to gain control of his own body, tries to force it to obey.

This is not right, this is not what he wants. 

But it's too late, her tears die down and body goes limb, the blood starting to cool down against her pale, broken skin. She's just red and white now, brown hair a bloody mess, mouth opened in an eternal scream. Jack can see the claw marks, white bones sticking out between the red flesh and gaping wounds. He did this, the blame is on him and no one else. 

Only then he gets back to control but it's no use anymore, what is done is done and Jack's legs give up under him. He's gasping for breath, the weight of his doings trying to crush him, the guilt squeezing his chest like a fucking clamp. He claws at his collar, the white hot metal and burned skin, wanting to know why it didn't work, why it didn't stop him.

_Because this is what you are. Nothing can take it away._

He screams, tries to muffle out the words inside his head but he knows it's true, it has to be. The blood on his hands is a proof enough and he stares, the red of his palms imprinted on his brain. Crimson, dark red, almost black, the color of life and death. 

He wakes up shouting, the tears stuck in his eyes blurring his vision. Everything is shaking, the darkness around him suffocating, the sheets tangled around his body tying him down. But he can still see the redness of his hands, the blood between his fingers, the killing tattooed to his arms.

It scares him to death, to know that it has happened, that he has murdered with these hands. And that there's no waking up from it, not today or any other day.

~~

Something about the night feels wrong, restless. Mark just lays still in his bed, staring at the walls around him, muscles twitching and his right hand agitated to reach the gun under his pillow. His mind is anxious as all hell, running around like a dog on a leash, getting nowhere. 

He can't get the picture of Jack out of his head, how he had looked when Mark had spotted him earlier in the hallway. It had been only a glimpse but the look in those baby blue eyes had been hollow, upgiving, decorated with a sliver of grim black. The green haired guy had dropped his personal belongings to the trash like he had lost his whole past life, all of the things that made him _him_ , in the process. It had been a strange thing to cross Mark's mind. Like he even knew the guy enough to actually understand. 

The silence of the night feels like a weight on top of him, warm and unmoving. It keeps him trapped in his thoughts and rings in his ears, feeding his paranoia. And then it's stripped off like a bandage, the act fast but painful, leaving a mark. 

The whole facility is filled with a hurting screech, Mark feeling it in his bones and radiating through the walls. It twists his guts and makes him want to shut his ears with his hands, makes him want to break, break, break. Instead, he jumps from his bed, grabs his gun and runs, never even thinking about where to go. He knows, having no other option.

He rushes into his partner's room, kicks the door open expecting an intruder, a killer, a murderer with guns and bloodthirsty blades, a monster of all the nightmares, anything. But there's just darkness, silence under the scream of pain, empty rooms and empty corners. The gun in his hands only meets air, pointing at walls and awaiting furniture. No one lethal, nothing to be feared. And still the panic hangs in the room, cools it down, prickles in Mark's blood like ice. 

The door to Jack's bedroom is open and Mark looks inside, faces two glowing eyes filled with fear and torture. Jack's hands are shaking in front of his chest, his eyes lost between his fingers and the empty air. He still whines, hurts, shatters. So small, so fragile. Falling tears make his cheeks shine in the dark when they catch the light from the hallway. 

Mark places his gun away, gently and slowly so that he doesn't alert Jack, the frightened animal. The gun makes a soft thud when hitting the small dresser near the door. Then he takes a few tentative steps, hands raised to prove he's harmless. Jack shudders and his blue eyes glimmer, not recognizing Mark. The steal and anger in those eyes are just a memory, the fire and will to fight never even touched that body. There's the ill-behaving, rule-breaking bastard and then there's this, this soft and weak being with too many feelings to bear. Two sides that rip Mark's choices apart.

”There's... blood,” Jack croaks, quiet as a whisper. The voice is broken and hollow, like a scratch against a stonewall. A cry, wounds made into sounds. Incoherent words stumbling from dry lips when he's talking to himself. 

Mark stays silent, slowly sitting down on the bed, dipping the mattress under his weight. He has no protocols for this kind of situation, no orders to follow. He's lost like Jack beside him. Waiting, still deciding. ”Why is it there?” Jack asks, now staring at Mark with so much intent that it feels like a pull, like a stranglehold. 

But there's no blood, no murder in those hands, it's all in Jack's head. There's no point telling that to him, this is his cross to bear. 

No killer lives like this, haunted by nightmares. With regret and pain and guilt. With memories twisting his mind to painful angles, to sharp edges. Mark can't understand why it said ”dangerous” and ”destroy” in those files he read. Nothing applies to this guy. _Nothing_. And he decides. 

He's seen so many Casters that he knows. One's power crafts their personality – or maybe it's the other way around, no one knows – making them the impersonates of their magic. Protective shield makers, hot-headed fire wielders, moody seers. The person and the power are one, not separate. But this man is weak where he should be strong, warm where he should be cold. There is Jack, and there is the beast, the fire in his veins, both unique individuals.

It makes this guy the most dangerous one Mark has ever met. Because he lowers his guard, lets go of his shield for him. He accepts Jack as a human, someone coping with a curse. Not a Caster, a normal person with something evil in his heart, poured into him in birth. It reminds him of the old stories, the beginning of the Casters, the fear, and the unnecessary chaos. The first Caster child was born with milky white eyes, appearing normal but great, unfamiliar power in his veins. A curse, they said. Until the scientists snatched the boy away and started collecting all the Casters after that. 

The soldier inside Mark puts an end to this nonsense. Casters have no curse, the power is a part of them with so strong ties that it's not just a disease in their blood, it's like a limb, a sense. They use it and god, Mark has seen the things it does, how superior it is compared to mere humans. The MSD is crazy, fucking _insane_ , with its wish to control something like that, to make it a weapon. To control Jack when he can't even control himself. 

And still, there are so many similarities between humans and Casters. So much same between Mark and Jack. So much that it confuses this devoted heart.

Without touching, without saying a word they share the moment, share the odd comfort forming between them. Jack is still not completely there, in this world and space and time, he's a shaking mess with too many thoughts and too little understanding for reality. He keeps mumbling to himself, keeps choking on his own screams of despair and Mark hums to him, tries to offer some weak gestures of support. The night ticks on, the darkness growing lighter by a minute.

When Jack finally falls asleep again, tucked under thick covers like a child, Mark finds it hard to leave. The lights around implicate there are only hours to the morning, which makes Mark's worry effortless. But there's no feeling of peace in the way Jack keeps whining in his dreams, breath hitching, hands and flickering claws clenched around the covers. He can't dream in ease, and somehow Mark can't either.

So he stays, makes a nest of his own on the sofa. He's been sleeping in worse places, catching some shut-eye everywhere possible. This is nothing, the watching duty he ends up doing. One eye open he snores softly, sometimes lifting his head to check on Jack, to see him toss and turn in his sleep. 

Just before the crack of dawn Jack finally calms down, finds his peace. Mark shuts his eyes and momentarily just breathes, basks in the light of the rising fake sun. Dark corners of the room are colored soft peach orange and sunflower yellow. 

One side of his heart still doubts, still listens to the rational mind, stays in line. The other side has given up, got eaten alive by the hollow eyes and pleading words. It questions, and Mark hates himself for that, hates Jack for sparking that idiotic hope – Hope to be proven wrong. 

~~

Everything that is left is just a minor dent on the sofa, an image of a head on the pillows against the armrest. He thinks Jack won't notice but the wasted hours stick to those cushions, stare back at him with the eyes of debt. Jack owns him and the thought makes him quiver.

They never talk about that debt, though. Never mention those long nights shattered by screams, those shared looks over shaking hands, closeness forming in thick air and a lent sofa. Mark always leaves before Jack wakes up, giving Jack his space and time, never asking, never testing the boundaries of that secret. It all stays easy that way, keeping Jack from confronting that conflict in his soul. 

Some nights Jack's the one wandering the silent hallways, invading Mark's personal space. Those nights, when he can't shut his eyes, too scared of facing his nightmares again, he crawls onto Mark's sofa and forces himself to fall asleep. The change of scenery helps, keeps the dreams at bay. The smells, the warmth, the presence of someone else. And maybe he's weak to seek that but he needs the safety more than anything. 

Only one more time, he keeps telling to himself. One more night. But the nights seem endless and it becomes a habit, a custom never questioned. 

He never says anything about it to Mark, always making sure that he's not caught, vanishing before the first light of morning. He doubts those nightly visits stay hidden, though, considering the soldier he shares his life now with. Mark's been trained to kill, to be the all seeing eye above everything and Jack would be very surprised if someone as untrained as him could sneak close to him unnoticed. But as long as he doesn't need to confront Mark with this upfront, Jack can pretend no one actually knows. 

For Jack, the furthermost border left uncrossed is the threshold of Mark's bedroom. He will never wander close that darkness that is his partner's property, never giving in to that temptation to be weak and seek comfort from those sheets, from that lie. For Mark, that border is closer. He walks over Jack's threshold without a second thought but keeps his hands to himself, never touching. He's just a ghost supporting Jack in his post-nightmare haze, with soft noises and unmoving presence.

Sometimes Jack's brain bumps again to that thought of softness, the smell of delicacy he got from Mark. He grits his teeth at it but it's part of his wires now, part of the image of Mark in his mind. 

When their eyes meet in the training hall during the days, nothing about the nights matter. Mark is there to teach, to beat the living hell out of Jack, eyes wooden hard and smile prickling. He doesn't act any different, doesn't give Jack any slack, and never shows that he's seen into a very dark soul. Jack never whines, never cries, he fights and swears, and keeps pushing Mark's buttons with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. He acts like there are no weaknesses in him, like he's strong and confident and never looks back.

Jack blocks when Mark hits him, dodges the flying kick and takes his revenge with a punch of his own. He gets better at it day by day, sees the important patterns in that formless violence. And then Mark twirls around, picks up his pace and takes the fighting to the next level. So that there's always something for Jack to reach, something telling him that he could be even better.

It keeps him occupied, keeps his thoughts in check, and he's thankful for it. 

They both know the debt exists, know that those nights will never go away even if they don't talk about them. But under the bright lights of the training hall and in the midst of everyday life there is no room for deeds of the darkness, no air for those beasts to breathe. They leave them alone, separate them from themselves. 

If they ever were to talk about those nightmares, they would make that wrapped up in the soft black of the night, too. But that will not happen because Jack has no wish to share his weaknesses with someone who could - and most certainly would - use them against him. He's vulnerable but not powerless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title from the song "Elevate" by Jayceeoh


	5. you fell right in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys that it has taken me so long to update this story. I've been so damn busy; with exams and stressing and life in general. I had no mood to write this and it didn't help that I had no idea what to do with this chapter. But from now on I'm on track again. I hope you all are still interested. Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. Confession time: This work was somehow heavily inspired by the song "Ocean Eyes" by Billie Eilish. I know it's maybe the most cliche Septiplier song there is but hey, who said I needed to be original? That song just got me, okay. And then came this story.

Surrounded by the dark steel walls, prisoned by the cages of bulletproof glass, Jack faces his next challenge. 

He knows how to punch, how to kick and fight and defend, how to deceive and destroy. He's used to the pain and exhaustion and the gym classes from Hell by now, survived the past month. Barely but somehow still, and he's proud of that. He's learned things about his own body and now it feels more familiar, more made for him. 

And maybe that's why he's so afraid of the gun in his hands, afraid of something that is _not_ a part of him, a soulless tool, its metal cold but burning. Burning with possibilities.

There's hunger in his blood that makes his breathing heavy. 

It's not the first time he's seen a gun. Not even the second or the third or even the tenth, maybe. He's seen it all; the glimmer of the metal, the dark form, the smoke, heard the deafening bang, felt the urge to dash into cover, to run for his life. He's seen those bullet holes decorating the walls of his neighborhood, accompanied by the traces of blood and the smell of the end, _death._

”The barrel, the trigger, the magazine,” Mark instructs him, holding the gun like he's never done anything else in his life, making Jack wish his hands would stop shaking. He makes Jack change the already full magazine to a new one, forces him to listen to the mechanic sounds of murder. 

Then Mark takes the safety off and Jack wants to escape, go as far as he can. How easy would it be to kill, how much power does he wield right now? Against Mark. Against... everybody.

But he's stuck. He can't break the glass, can't tear down these walls. Mark's brown eyes stare at him with demand, steady and dark. What paralyzes him is the look at his target, the black ragdoll with a red circle painted on its chest. It screams for false, acted up death. It waits for him to fall and he has no other choice. ”In situations you really need to shoot,” Mark says quietly, sounding like he's reading this out loud from somewhere, ”the person at the other end of your gun's barrel wants you dead.”

It doesn't help. That damn doll couldn't kill anyone, couldn't lift a finger. Jack's hands are still shaking when Mark shows him how to extend his arms forward, holding the gun in both hands. His insides are still screaming when he points his target, places his finger to the trigger. Something in his veins squirms, nervous and excited. His eyes turn wild and scalp itches, makes him bite his cheek. He chokes, waiting for the calm that never comes. 

The bullet doesn't even scratch the black canvas of the doll, bouncing back from the metal wall. 

And then Mark comes rushing, those brown eyes still steady, unwavering. He just nods, takes the gun from far too inexperienced hands and puts it down. His touch is surprisingly gentle and those eyes look at Jack with wonder, like he's trying to solve a puzzle. ”A few major adjustments,” Mark hums then, for himself maybe. All Jack can register is the relief of getting away from that burning, escaping the killing. Escaping the ugly hunger. 

That's how they end up just inches apart, warm, slightly darker skin beside the paler one, fingers entwined. Jack feels his walls rising and teeth baring, uncomfortable so close to this man he doesn't know, engrossed by his weak self that wishes for comfort. They circle each other, Mark touching Jack here and there, lifting his chin, lowering his shoulders, tapping his leg to get it move forward. He makes Jack stronger, more able to take it all. _Lies_ , whispers Jack's heart, knowing weakness when it sees it.

”It kicks back,” Mark says, proving it with a bang that makes Jack jump. The gun jerks like wishing to be gone. ”Hold it firmly, and tense your muscles.” He gets a slap on his arms and shoulder, a tentative punch to his back when Mark tests him, readies those lazy muscles. Jack tries to keep still like a rock, arms pointing forward, feet separated and glued to the ground. He grits his teeth when he trembles. Closes his eyes when Mark's smell surrounds him, makes him sick – of fear and nothing else. A soft touch and then, ”Relax. It's all about the balance.”

Jack rips himself off from that suffocating touch and glares at Mark with angry eyes. He told this guy to stay the hell away from him, to be more careful with his foolish wish to touch. He's so damn careless with his fingers, so damn indifferent about personal space. Idiot. 

Then they start again, Mark honing Jack's performance, talking about good aim and balance and feeling. ”Not quite enough,” Mark repeats, again and again and again, making Jack change his posture one inch at a time. Frustration sparks in the air, makes the collar burn at times and test Jack's patience, forces him to control his instincts. He then asks to learn from some kind of an example, from a picture, because he's better at that, and Mark shows him, gives him time to mimic and copy. But nothing fits and, in the middle of everything, Jack's mind wanders to the thoughts of past, forms questions of this guy that seems to have guns sprouting from his hands and gunpowder in his eyes.

The first time, what was it like and why? Who pushed this guy to this path, who made him grab that gun? Because – Jack can see it and that's why he's sure – there once was a child, a little boy, with laughter and sunshine that knew nothing about these instruments of death.

Mark smiles to him behind fingers that point straight to his forehead. ”Bang,” Jack whispers and for some reason, giggles. Maybe he will end up insane after all this.

The smirk it sparks is better than the approving nod. ”Not quite there yet but we can work with it,” Mark says and turns around, backing away from Jack's boundaries, leaving them finally sealed. 

They share a look, soft and discrete, with each other and the waiting gun. Then Mark just picks it up, puts it right back to its holster on his belt. Something about the way Mark knows, reads Jack like an open book and figures out he's not comfortable with that small piece of metal in his hands, makes Jack hold on tighter to his walls. It's scary how far beyond Mark sees even though he's deep under his cover, wearing a mask that has fooled everyone. Until now, except one.

He doesn't see the gun after that. 

Everything he has is his fingers pointing the air when they move back to the main training hall. Mark puts up a circle of practice targets, Jack feeling nauseous staring those faceless dummies but hands steadier than before. He does as he's told, spins around and takes different positions, aiming at the targets Mark points for him. Soon he figures out that his posture shouldn't always be the same but fit the situation, fit his aim's height, the changes he does with his body, the amount he needs to turn around.

He loses his balance mid spin, dropping onto his knees and suddenly he locks eyes with his wannabe-partner, fingers still pointing at the target. His chest is heaving, sweat rolls slowly down his spine, green hair sticking to his forehead and eyelids. Mark looks... proud. Almost. Maybe. It's hard to read his expression after staring those empty faces for so long. 

It was harder when they first met. Now Jack can see those fine differences between annoyance and wonder, between approval and demand, between good and bad. Half of the time. The other half is lost in the shadows of Mark's soldier heart, behind short words and strictly controlled looks. 

They spend hours like that, spinning around like mad men. Jack can barely feel his legs, Mark's still audible voice is a miracle and then they stop, only to start running right after. It's the second level of Hell and afterwards sleep comes without asking.

Something about the way the gun feels in Jack's hands the second time he gets to hold it makes him question himself as a person. He gets used to that burning in his hands, comes to terms with the possibility of murder, starts to believe in self-defense. Step by step, day by day.

Mark starts talking about tactics, starts to put some knowledge into those meaningless actions and then it comes. The info about how to hurt. Where to aim, what part of the body to damage, to not kill, but slow down. How to immobilize. How to steal that last breath. ”Instant death,” Mark whispers and points at his own chest, his heart. Jack stares back with hard eyes, only inches away, the gun's handle firmly pressed against Mark's throat. 

Midway through Jack realizes he thinks about his past less and less, that he can't recognize the boy who used to just work and wander aimlessly, fear darkness and avoid sleep. The boy who used to be so dull and so bitter towards the world. Who used to think that he could avoid the ugliness of it. 

That boy wouldn't recognize him either. Not the MSD logo on his chest, not the fire and ambition in his eyes. Not the way he carries his body now, proud but soft, hard but silent as a ghost. Not his fragile partnership with an MSD agent. That boy wouldn't understand, he would hate the contract with the devil. But he would stop beating his mouth after hearing about the reward, after hearing about the freedom.

Or at least Jack hopes he could convince himself the second time, too. Hopes he's not on the wrong path because it opened sooner than the right one.

~~

It takes him three days to get used to that killing metal in his hands. A week more to be able to shoot again. A day more to be able to actually look where he's shooting. His aim is terrible but his hands aren't shaking anymore. He even feels sure, in peace. And afraid of the hunger that sparks in his heart, beside the beast. 

It's the same every day, Mark just keeps changing the target. Sometimes they move, sometimes they don't and sometimes they fire back. Jack keeps yelling that he's better with other weapons, better suited for knives and sticks and arrows but Mark insists those are not weapons but sidearms. The gun is the only weapon that can keep him alive and safe, that can fight back against the enemies. Against far more powerful and bigger guns. 

That word, 'enemies', gets Jack to grimace on its simplicity, on the casualty he now uses it with. He never thought he would have anything else but people and himself in his world.

”This is the thinking that people hate you for,” he tells Mark, horrified by the government's habit to split people, and tastes the venom on his tongue. Mark just shrugs and throws him a lifeless idiom in return. Somehow the MSD has his mind and Jack has no strength or reason to free it. He hates how mad it makes him.

In the middle of those faceless dolls again, Jack squeezes his gun knuckles white. He's wearing some kind of glasses that make the training hall into an interactive practice course and colors the black dolls with cyan, electrical web. Targets appear with yellow lining, standing out like a sore thumb. His gun is filled with color shots that the glasses register as red dots, keeping count on his accuracy. Mark wants him to get to 80 percent and Jack thinks he's insane. Not real, blending to the background, the glasses coloring him with gray and gray and gray stripes like he's nothing.

Those brown eyes still stand out like neon lights. 

Under those eyes Jack fights, twists and turns, tries to reach that 80 percent score and after a while actually believes in his chances, believes in _himself_. He's so close, it's possible and the yellow lines keep changing into red, the color splattered across everything like blood. There's so much undiscovered power in his body and he trusts it to handle everything, performs jumps and spins and dodges, imagines bullets and fire surrounding him.

The yellow sparks to red and then suddenly blue, a pair of big blue eyes behind a bullet that hits straight between them. A tremble goes through him when he stares the small red circle of a bullet hole, follows the single drop of blood streaming down the delicate nose onto lips that still hang on to an inaudible scream. 

Then the eyes slowly fall dead, their color a little ashen, all dull and soulless. The skin becomes white, then gray, the golden hair a lifeless lump. Jack withers, shrinks to himself while knowing the things he can't make unknown. He stares at the girl he tried to save, the girl whose pain made him finally snap and this is exactly what he tried to prevent from happening, what he tried to stop. What he never wanted. 

He has no strength and in the next moment, he's on his knees, holding his head in agony, hearing the accusing whispers that break his heart. Inside his body the beast roars, wishing to protect and fight. Stronger than the human, stronger than this breakable core. Fire and pain lock around his throat.

Jack throws the glasses away, choking on the feeling of being in a cage of targets to kill, of pain to share. The gun falls from his shaking hands with a metallic bang, the sound like an explosion in this deathly silence. It stares back at him from the floor like it's pleading to be a part of him again, to use him as a host for its dark desires.

He looks away, only to be sucked in by those dead eyes and their dull glare. His handiwork. His sin. 

In the back of his mind, Jack knows the girl is not dead, that she is still alive and it's been confirmed by the MSD. They told it to him when he asked. She wasn't injured. She showed up home for the night. It's just the fact that in that moment Jack didn't care, couldn't have told her from that dead asshole. 

Couldn't have told that innocent blood from that he spilled for a reason. 

”Jack. _Jack!_ ” The voice comes to him as an echo, distant and way too silent to be a shout. It reaches him despite all the ghosts, cuts a path through all those dead stares. ”Look at me! It's not real!” How can Mark say that when he can see the dead girl there? 

And then Jack looks away from that dead stare, scared, only to see those brown eyes, still like neon lights. Without even realizing he holds onto that look like he's drowning, knowing that Mark can make it all disappear. Knowing the thin line between a nightmare and the reality. 

There wasn't any innocent blood on those brick walls. 

He gets up with shaky legs, feeling sick and weak, still hanging on to that bright look. Mark snatches the gun from the floor, hides it behind his back under the waistband of his pants. Cold metal against warm skin. Jack shudders when the thought of Mark not being even a small bit bothered by that closeness crosses his mind. Are there no ghosts for someone who's so used to the killing already? Is that what he becomes?

That night Mark comes to his room without asking, hearing no pained screams on his way. Jack pretends he's asleep when he hears the footsteps, knowing Mark makes his walking noisy just for him. On the threshold, they suddenly stop, like asking for a permission. Or maybe seeking reassurance. Jack rustles in his sheets, makes himself known and then he feels Mark's presence on his side.

That night the last border is crossed so easily that Jack chooses to pretend it didn't happen. Mark's touch is soft and warm, hesitant but still there. He says nothing but somehow Jack still understands. Those ghosts were real, for both of them. They're human.

Knowing that helps him to pick up the gun the next day and face the dark dummies again. He still sees the dead blue eyes but the pull of a neon brown, somehow, is stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title from the song "Lines of the Broken" by Droeloe


	6. wonder if you'd even recognize me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been ages again, my apologies my dearies. I've finally gotten to that point of this story that I really enjoy writing these things and really want to show you all what I have in store for these two. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy this as a whole, but this is _interesting_. This is something that has been stuck in my head since I started this story. Glad to have it out. 
> 
> Thank you for ya all so much for reading this and leaving those lovely comments! 
> 
> P.S. If ya feel like knowing more about me, asking something about this story or giving me tips (anything, really) feel free to check my tumblr [vishcount.tumblr.com](http://vishcount.tumblr.com/)

They're both just so lost with this, walking in circles in the dark.

Mark's picking nonexistent dust from his shirt when the door to the training hall finally opens and stills his nervous hands. The big blue eyes are filled with fear and curiosity when their eyes meet, already asking questions, seeking answers. But there's none, not yet. They need to figure it all out starting from a scratch.

Everything they know is from those tests they made Jack in the MSD's lab when he was a kid. A few samples, an inch of study. Nothing, so to speak. What they learned was that Jack's body doesn't change, he's nothing like a shape-shifter. It's more like a shell, one appearance under the other. When Jack's like this – human, _himself_ – the animal in him is just a spirit, a possibility in his blood and DNA. When the magic sets the animal free, the human is still there, inside the beast, asleep. 

They stole a few more samples when Jack was taken into custody after his deathly bloodplay. They needed answers, badly. What they got was a possibility, a strong maybe. They thought Jack could lend some abilities from the animals he carried within himself, could use them as a secret weapon. That his emotions were linked to that, changing his appearance slightly because the animal was pushing the boundaries to protect, to lend its power. He just needs to learn how to control it, how to keep the balance between the beast and the human, how to not slip away from himself.

With zero knowledge, Mark has no idea how to act as an instructor. How to _teach_. Shouldn't he have a plan, some rules to follow?

Just now he realizes how crazy he was to accept this mission, how suicidal. But he couldn't turn it down, not when it meant maybe preventing one more death, maybe giving someone one more chance.

Jack just stands there, breathing heavily, blinking slowly like trying to adjust, struggling. The blue color of his irises wavers, turns to yellow, red, black, pupils turning into vertical slits, then back to blue again. His hands are shaking, forming tight fists, nails digging into the palms. Nails of a beast, of a bird, of a wolf. His whole skin is pale and stretched tightly over his bones, the scales of a serpent coming and going. Like the beast is hiding just under the surface, trying to break it. And it is, it tries to break free from the cage Jack has no power to keep secure, riding on his emotions, feeding on that confusion and fear. 

Both hands in the air Mark stares the beast, unmoving, giving Jack time and space. He needs to control it, be able to be the master of his own emotions. Blue eyes close, eyebrows knitting together. The shaking stops soon after, scales freezing to formless spots. They wait, the silence sharp like a knife. One move, one word and they die. Mark feels his heart beating in his fingertips, thrumming under the skin and nails.

It all ends when Jack moves, slow and stiff, still crushing his eyes shut. A small step from the door, under the lights. That's when Mark notices Jack wearing a normal t-shirt, not his usual turtleneck. It leaves his neck bare, naked without his collar. Hideous under all those scars, burns, and bruises. A collection of all those years without an answer. Without purpose. 

There was no putting this special talent inside the boundaries made for normal people, no controlling it like they wanted to. Mark knows it was the right choice, the only thing they could do. No one like this ever existed. No one like Jack. They needed to be sure, to keep people safe. To keep Jack even from himself, hide him. 

It's just harder to make himself believe it's right after seeing those scars. That there really was no other choice. That the safety of everyone was worth all of that. All that pain. All that lost time.

Luckily, Jack doesn't open his eyes before Mark has gotten a hold of his thoughts. They don't need two unstable people in this room. They lock eyes with each other while Jack gives a shuddering breath, another eye familiar blue, the other one sharp yellow. He nods, taking a few more stumbling steps before regaining his balance, his certainty. His eyes tell he's ready for battle against anything – even himself. 

Though he's not, he's scared and without a course, unpredictable. And Mark hates unpredictability, he's got protocols and rules and plans for that. In MSD they got scouts, team mates, sources and little useful gadgets for that. They knew what to do, how to do it and what would be the outcome. Despite the struggle, despite the little surprises, they always ended up in the same spot, to their goal.

Now he has no idea. 

”Let's take it easy,” Mark says quietly, afraid to go poking this electrified silence around them. Because nothing about this is easy and they both know it. ”All you have to do is turn into an animal and then straight back, got it?” 

There's a scream in those eyes, a plea of help, of support. Jack knows nothing about how this works though he has done it once. According to the files, he remembers nothing of his week as a bird, has no clue what it was like, what he did and what he should do now. There's a black hole in his brain regarding this issue, sucking on his ability to be whole. It makes Mark wonder if teaching Jack as a kid would've made MSD's goal more achievable, easier to reach. How hard would it have been to keep that kid's learning inside certain barriers? The innocence of a child would've been their escape, that wish to learn just for the sake of learning. It would've been easier to shape paths for that learning than to start from nothing now that all that power ignites inside is fear and panic. Now that Jack is already full of hate towards everything he was denied.

His eyes show the battle inside, the battle between his curiosity, his wish to know what it's like, what he's like and the fear of failing, of becoming something he is not, what he already was, _is_. 

Somewhere under all that is the weapon they're seeking for, and Mark takes focus, readies himself. This is his mission, his job. 

It's just a scratch, a sound of something moving, someone's presence pushing in. It's the mechanic sound of a door, the beep of an electrical lock, secure code punched in. And then Jack's gone, the slim thread he's been hanging on snapped in half, his predator eyes filling him with the soul of a beast. It's the change in the atmosphere that makes it all move, crashes everything down. Everything they so carefully built on shattered glass and ripped paper. Nothing permanent.

In that second Jack's already clawed his way out, busted the air vent near the floor. That only vent there is, in this completely escape-safe tin can. Blue eyes leave an imprint to Mark's brain, the threat and excitement evident in them. Like he's daring Mark to follow, to stop him. The echo of a howl rushes through the walls to Mark's skin, turns into a laugh, the insane sounding cackle of a hyena.

That laugh becomes the soundtrack of Mark's failure. He hurries to the barely open door swearing under his breath, feeling the headache behind his eyes. He has tried to tell them, has tried to warn them. Has been saying over and over again that there is a reason why only he has the codes, why only he can enter. But someone thought it was easier for them to give the access codes to some outsider delivering the food, an intruder with no information. Now that guy has walked in the wrong minute, ruining everything.

”Leave it there and go!” Mark hisses to the confused guy on the door, his blue MSD uniform the same color as his eyes. The guy tries to talk but Mark is already gone, having no patience or bloody time to simple courtesy. He only has to hope that the guy really leaves after doing what he's told.

It's raining outside and the coldness of all of it comes as a surprise. The wind chills him to bone under instantly drenched clothes, makes his movements slow and sluggish. Sounds disappear under the steady rhythm of raindrops drumming the ground, making anything hard to follow.

Inside the steal cube they have no idea about anything, no windows, no breath of real air. _To keep everything easier to control_ , Mark recalls hearing. He remembers nodding to that, understanding.

_To keep the life as far away from freedom as possible_ , some voice whispers inside his heart now, seeing this whole scene as a new. It taints his whole mind with dark doubt, fights with the soldier in him when it screams acceptance, knowing. Why Jack can't taste the freedom, can't learn to live with it. How once having would teach him to want it back.

But can anyone live without any sense of freedom?

The air vent ends exactly where it should end but Mark sees no sign of Jack. Everything behind the gray wall of rain is just formless mass no matter how hard Mark squints his well trained eyes. The wet grass under his feet is muddy but reveals no tracks left behind, like everything has just vanished, gone. Like the whole beast was just his imagination, remains of a badly slept night.

Somewhere in the distance is the main gate to their training area rounded by tall chain-link fence. Fence that is nothing like normal, embed with small electrons that carry the same power as inside the walls of MSD's cells. This is stronger, though, not ending to just surpassing but to completely destroying. It's like a short circuit that makes the magic energy in the Casters' body to malfunction, causing the person to go rogue, to lose control and leaving them like that.

Jack can't go beyond those walls without losing everything, without killing a part of himself. Without dooming this mission to fail. Without making it all disappear to the wind.

”Jack!” Mark shouts to the wind and rain, wet hair falling on his eyes. He knows it's no use if the beast is still in control, if it's still _not Jack_. But the human is there, the owner of that name is there and Mark needs him back, needs him to hear. Maybe the beast will follow the tuck of its heart and then Jack can fight and turn back.

God, only thing the MSD can blame is themselves if this ends the bad way.

Mark hopes it doesn't. Because of the future Jack's power can provide, he thinks, biting his lip. Denying the part that says that it's because he doesn't want to see Jack hurt, can't take that away from him, too. Can't see him go crazy.

He's learned to think that it's selfishness that drives the Casters. That in each one of them is the potential to turn dark, to want only things for themselves. That that selfishness is the reason why they learn to think they're superior, know that they're more powerful than mere humans. Why they lust for power if no one tells them otherwise, teaches them to do good. He's seen them tearing people apart because of themselves. Seen them tearing this earth apart.

But Jack, there's nothing selfish about him. About his wish to recover what was taken from him, to be himself. He has all the rights to be what he is and Mark's angry with himself, angry with that part which has so much understanding for this lost soul. Why can't he see the danger, can't recognize the carrier of death? Hasn't he seen those bloody walls, those ripped up body pieces?

A howl from Mark's left makes him stop and listen. It could be his imagination but in this rain – in the middle of this god forsaken rain that doesn't help him one bit – he still takes the turn. Suddenly, there are imprints in the muddy grass, scratch marks scattered all around. The stones of the path leading to the gate come visible despite the dirty ground. He hears something that is not the rain, too unsynched to be just water on stones. Then he hears rattling and it forces him to run.

Minutes later he understands that they hang by a thread, inches from the catastrophe he already imagined. Jack – or the hyena, roaming free now, Jack trapped inside – is rattling the safe gate before the actual entrance, going wild with panic and wish to be free, jumping against the fence, trying to reach the barbed wire on top. In those icy blue eyes there's confusion and determination, hatred towards Mark and then it growls, teeth bare. Fear flashes raw in those eyes, making him stop.

The rattling continues, the strong paws hitting the fence and then the walls leading to it. The beast is in a frenzy, trying its hardest to get away. It's clawing the chain-links, then biting at them eyes looking crazy, the whites of them showing. Then Mark sees a flash of red, blood on those muddy tiles and he sees a cut, just under its nose, slowly bleeding. The mad jumping and running just continues, making Mark's heart ache.

This is not freedom, this is torture.

”Hey!” he shouts, the beast in front of him giving him no thought. Only an ear twitches, acknowledging him. It's a start, maybe. Mark shakes wet hair and raindrops from his eyes. ”Hey! Take it easy!” This time the beast stops, breathing heavily, the low growl picking volume. It becomes a low grumble, the deep noise just before a storm. Scary, dangerous. Telling people to run away.

They stare at each other, a man with a heart layed wide open and a beast choosing between an ally and a foe. It feels ridiculous, trying to comfort an animal like this.

”Calm down,” Mark says, lowering his voice, wanting to imply he's not a threat. The blue eyes tell tales to him, about lost years and broken promises, about hate and fear and denied feelings. Tales of Jack, not the beast. Like the beast used to tell tales of its own lurking behind Jack's blue look. Now Jack's locked inside, wishing to surface again. Living the life of this beast, what it was forced to become. A ghost. ”I need him back, okay? I know you want to protect him but there's nothing to protect him from.”

Silence. The rain keeps pouring down, the damp coldness already forgotten. The brown and black colored fur of a hyena is a sad mess, glued to its skin like a rag. It must feel the coldness, too. A few more strangled laughs escape its mouth, wild cackles that mix with deeper growls and howls. It makes Mark anxious, makes him uncomfortable in his own skin. He doesn't understand, can't see inside an animal's head. He just waits trying not to fickle with his fingers.

Then the beast closes its eyes, huffing in the air. Like telling it's giving up, choosing to trust this creature it doesn't recognize. Maybe it hears Jack. Or maybe it just feels beaten, chased to a corner. A wild beast that gained nothing of its wildness.

It's like watching a hologram getting broken. First it's just the hyena, wet and with wild eyes. Then it's a creature bowed down, bare human skin everywhere, the fur visible and not, waving like an ocean. Its eyes turn blue and yellow and brown, showing the beast and then Jack, the souls switching on and off, competing with each other. And then it's just Jack, gasping for air and shaking, suddenly cold and wet after sleeping for a while, confused as all hell. His clothes cling to his skin, showing the bones, the ribs poking through. A pitiful creature, lost and helpless.

For a few seconds he doesn't recognize Mark, doesn't understand anything. He's just an embodiment of panic, fingerst tangled to the fence, legs itching to run away. He stares the grey sky with wide eyes looking like he just felt the rain, didn't know it coming. Stiff hands close around his chest, feeling the heartbeat. Mark can't tell if it's his own or if he really is seeing Jack's wild heart beating in his veins, strangling him.

”You told me I was safe!” Jack shrieks then, voice broken and the betrayal evident in it. It makes Mark close his eyes for a moment like he's taking a punch to the face. Pain. Regret. Cold. He knows what he had said. The day before he promised Jack was going to be alright, that he had all the time and space he wanted. That inside the walls of their training center he had nothing to worry about, that he could be anything he ever was. That there was no one to force him, no one to try to manipulate him. He decided for himself, called the shots.

Fuck he hates the guy who stormed in to interrupt them, made this mess. Ripped Jack out of his own reach.

”You were,” Mark answers, softly. ”You _are_.” And he hopes that Jack can see it. That he could do nothing about it, that it was just one thing leading to another. He never wished Jack to have this as his first experience. He wanted to take it slow, let Jack get comfortable with it. This was like a burst that got Jack broken, tore him apart and then stitched him back together again, all pieces wrinkled and wrong. Brought back old memories that burned like ice. Made more black holes that scare him to death.

When they get back inside, Mark notices that Jack is still bleeding. His nose has a small cut, a reminder that the beast is in someways a really tight part of him. That sharing the pain is part of this deal. Jack gives him a cold side eye, lip twitching with despise. Sparks of suspicion swim in his look and Mark keeps his mouth shut. Then Jack disappears to his room, leaving small puddles of rain water behind.

Moments later Mark closes his own door and snatches his phone from the living room table. There's only one number in it, the line secured like a prison yard. Mark's MSD contact Thomas, the tech wizard, answers after half a ring. Mark gives him no time to speak before saying: ”If you don't collect those secure codes away, I'm going to treat the next delivery guy popping up to my door like any intruder.” Then he closes the line, only ever hearing the soft sigh Thomas gives.

They both know that Mark is ready to live up to his word, carry out his threat. The next guy is going to come back in tiny pieces, and now it's the MSD's choice if they want that or not.

He learned from the best and now, because of some things he can't understand, he's ready to use that against the department that raised him like one of their own.

Only after the lights in his room tell him that it's late enough for the sun to set – if it has even risen, considering the rain and the heavy clouds outside earlier – Mark slips away from his complex thoughts. He wanders silently through the hallway, way too concious about his own hands, how he doesn't seem to find a place for them. Hungry for something he's been aching to do.

Jack hasn't gone to sleep yet. He's sitting on his bed, wearing worn pyjama pants, his green hair a wild mess. His whole body tenses when he senses Mark and realizes he's sharing his space with some other being, blue eyes flashing red. But he doesn't move. For Mark, crossing the threshold of the bedroom becomes the hardest thing in his life.

He doesn't know if Jack even wants this. But he chooses to do what he feels is right.

His cold hands slip behind Jack's neck, feeling the warm skin, feeling the softness of his hair. Jack gives out a growl, raises his hands to reject, touching Mark's arms. Confused. Scared. This trust that never seems to fully bloom between them is fragile, doubt circulating in their eyes. Mark's afraid to ask and Jack's unwilling to answer. Then Mark feels the cold metal under his fingers, sliding his thumbs on the sides of the collar.

The click of it is like a bang – in the air, inside Jack's chest. Mark places the collar on the nightstand hearing Jack breathe, shuddering. A small gasp that tells Mark how much he's been hoping, waiting. All these years, filing one application after another, always getting the same answer. _No, no, no._

The scars stare back, Mark suddenly growing a great interest to the opposite wall, to the matt beneath his feet. How could they?

”Do you have a permission?” Jack whispers, his voice a little raspy. Like he's been choking. What he maybe has been, his whole life.

”Yes,” Mark says, meeting Jack's suspicious eyes. He wishes he could give him something more. ”My own permission.”

~~

No one dares to walk through the front door after that. Jack has no idea what Mark has said or done but whatever it is, it lets them train in peace.

Knowing that there are no surprises to come, Jack lets the beast finally take over, lets it consume him.

Getting to know the animal inside of him is like learning to walk. It happens slowly, step by step, through failure and mistake but once learnt he doesn't seem to forget. He hates turning, loves mending. He hates those black holes in his memory, the feeling of losing himself, letting go of something that defines him, waking up with only fragments of feelings inside his mind bubbling amongst the darkness and dreamless sleep. But sometimes he feels like they're one, he and the animal, and then he loves it, loves figuring it out.

He never thought he had a thing for exploring, for the unknown. Though, maybe, he should have realized by now, should've noticed the thirst.

It helps that he doesn't wear the collar at nights anymore. Mark never explained to him why, why then and what for, Jack could never read his expression right then but it doesn't matter because being free really _helps_.

Since the evening Mark first took it off, he has only destroyed one pair of sheets. Even the nightmares have somehow calmed, leading to less nightly visits from his partner, less embarrassment of unwillingly accepted comfort. Now there's just occasional claw marks and strange little nests in his bedroom but he takes those any day now that there's no pain and burning.

They're almost three weeks in steadily improving Jack's skills with transforming and ”lending” as they've started to call it. They've been stretching him to his limits, trying to comprehend his true capabilities. Gathering understanding before learning.

Then Mark comes to him with empty hands, fire burning behind his brown eyes. Jack needs no words to tell him that this is the next step, the step he doesn't want to take. Like firing a gun once was. Like learning to kill once was.

But Mark leaves him no choice, lunging at him with full force, his face stone and body blazing fire.

The hell breaks loose. The feelings he's so carefully tried to keep in control, that he's tried to learn and understand won't stay in his hands, snapping and bursting. Those bonds between his feelings and the beast's spark to light like the fierce intensity of the fight, of his struggle and the adrenaline out of it all are the gasoline spilled to flames. He drowns to the smoke, seeing everything blur.

It only takes a second – only that one second when he feels frustrated and revengous and furious – and then he smells the blood, hears the muffled grunt. Mark stumbles back, holding his left eye with his hand. There's genuine surprise in his eyes and Jack thinks it shouldn't be there, it _shouldn't_. Mark should've known. They've already figured out enough to know that it all comes down to the feelings, the whole lending thing leans to that. It's his fault for pushing too hard, for rushing and being stupid.

And then Jack sees the wound, a long cut under Mark's eye, messy with blood. It hurts to his heart to see it, to know the red in his again normal nails is from that, from his own darkness.

Mark's brown eyes turn soft, apologetic but Jack's already going. He can't stay, not when his feelings are still unsteady.

When he's about to hurt.

With shaking fingers and desperation he doesn't fully understand, he searches the collar from his room, clutches to it. Inside his mind, he begs, begs that this isn't the end of it and this slip, this small misstep isn't the way to darkness, to losing himself completely.

He can feel the slick touch of evil in his soul, around his heart. The burning inside his veins, the pull of the beast, the instincts going wild and he screams, clicks the collar around his neck. Where it should be, should've always been. They were right when they denied him this, hid him.

He falls asleep like that, breathing ragged and unsteady, telling himself that he's fine as long as the metal is locked around his neck. That the beast can't break him as long as it's locked away, inside his body. Where it should be.

He wakes up more tired than when he was when he went to bed, the darkness in his dreams now swimming right before his eyes, more real than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title from the song "Broken" by Trifonic


	7. way to say I'm sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I just decided to have a little break from this fic and... Half a year later we're here :'D I'm so sorry. First it was just my laziness, then moving to a new place and starting in a new school and getting into all of that and then it just got left behind because of my new interests. But I'm back now! I'm trying to give this work something more. If you all are still willing to read, that is :'D
> 
> Enjoy!

There was a time when the old stories of Casters were Jack's escape. Now he finds himself thinking about those legends again, clutching onto the thought of a curse. That somehow he can beat the beast, get rid of it, run faster than it, be stronger.

How easy would it be to live like that, use the curse as an excuse. Pretend that he can do nothing about it, only fight against it and he's not to blame, not to be kept responsible. That he's just unfortunate and needs someone or something to save him, _cure_ him. That would strip off the fear from their faces.

Instead, there would be pity in their eyes, and he hates it, hates the way it makes him feel. First warm but like sour milk, a few days too old, it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and afterwards makes him want to vomit. Makes him feel disgusted with himself, with the way people only see him as someone who can't survive. Someone not good enough. 

Some part of him even whispers that there's no way him being himself, being Jack, without the beast. That they're one and the other would just wither away if the other disappeared. That he needs it, wants it to be there.

The curse is something they've ended up talking about a lot lately. The words are somewhat careful, pretending to be light but failing and becoming breathless, empty. They both have secrets they don't want to share and opinions the other doesn't want to hear. But reading between the lines has told Jack how different they are, how different the life has been for them. Where Jack sees these stories as fairytales, stupid and hopeless wishes that carried him through, Mark sees them as the proof of science's absence. That the curse like other folklore throughout the ages was made up to explain something they couldn't otherwise.

Like they still could explain it when they call it 'magic' in the first place.

The clouds in the sky make Mark's eyes look like metal, more gray than brown, more sharp than soft. They fall silent and Jack takes comfort in that, staring into the distance. After his grand escape from the training facility, they've started to go outside of it to this fenced up grass ground that takes half a football field. The best thing about it is the fresh air, the real air, that changes by the weather, from warm to chilly to damp and right back.

Running is easier like that, wind in his lungs, something green under his feet. He can't say he enjoys the wall of fences around him, the trapped feeling he gets every time, but seeing the sun and tasting the rain make it up for him. 

Sometimes, after an hour-long run in any weather, they sit down on wooden benches that are actually made for push-ups and share something. Usually, it's the silence and heavy breaths, maybe some water from a bottle Jack first eyed suspiciously. But, once in a while, Mark ends up talking about his family, about his childhood, about the things that happened. Nothing much really, nothing that could give in something Jack isn't supposed to know. But it feels warm, almost friendly, and sometimes Jack wonders what should've happened in the past to make them friends instead of this. 

_You should've born with different blood_ , a voice whispers inside his head, cruel and dark. He shakes it away and hopes Mark can't read it from his eyes, can't see that he's blaming himself for those empty words.

Sometimes he's the one to share. He tries to think about something light, tell something easy and normal about his childhood, about anything, but the way Mark keeps looking at him tells him he doesn't succeed at all. The brown eyes are sad and soft, not quite pitying but almost and it makes Jack sound bitter, act angry. And it doesn't help that Mark doesn't even pry, doesn't try to crawl under his skin, ask more.

It makes Jack think that he already knows, already sees under it all. That he knows to stay quiet.

Then come those nightmares again, Jack's magic confined by the collar, the burning not escaping his head or heart or blood. New scars form on his skin, blood dripping down his shoulders and collarbones. He feels like dying, feels like losing himself and then Mark's there, a voice from afar, too distant to actually get through. They both try; try to stop that madness, try to stop that fear but they fail.

Until Mark brings back memories, brings back a ghost. A name from another life.

”Seán!”

It wakes Jack up. That name he forgot ages ago, left behind when he was abandoned. He wanted nothing to do with his past self, wanted to get rid of that boy. To not think about the person he could have been if not for his powers, his DNA. That name last spoken by his mother.

And now he knows, knows Mark's able to tell. He wouldn't use that name if he didn't know, couldn't tell the feelings calling him that sparks. Deep inside he's torn apart.

”You know,” he hushes, feels his nails dig into his palms. Reality shifts true before his eyes. It's worse than any nightmare, leaves second all of the bloody bodies and guilt and darkness. This trust that they never had has one more crack, is a little bit harder to accomplish. He used to think they started from the same line.

”Jack, I – ”

”You fucking know! What else did they tell you? How my parents gave me up, thinking I was a monster? How I was so damn lost and when I finally thought I could find a place to belong, they told me I was a mistake? Useless? Fucking _nothing_?! How I wanted to die? How I got away from there and hoped for something better but only got that hellhole to live in, a shitty job that gave me nothing and this – this bloody collar – around my neck to make me bleed every goddamned night? Fuck you!"

Mark stares at him in silence, brown eyes in the dark. His lips are a thin line, keeping all those lies hidden, all that knowledge in his head. Jack feels his anger, his disappointment, finally burst and he lashes onto him, nails first, spitting curses on him, feeling so utterly betrayed that he can't make proper sentences anymore. From the start, he had this hunch, had this sick feeling that Mark knew more than he was willing to give up, that he dug deeper than was proper for him. 

Jack felt exposed and now he knows why, understands the difference between them. He never got to have any secrets, any privacy. It wasn't one of his basic rights and now the choice of telling has been ripped away from him, stolen. 

Some part of him is sad about losing the possibility to tell Mark, to open up. Old secrets, dusty and painful, stuffed to nudges of his heart, ready to fly. Ready to be free. But now those half thoughts are crippled, torn. 

He throws Mark out before he can raise his hands, try to touch. He doesn't have a permission to that anymore, he's the worse pain of these two, worse than the nightmares. He should stay away, keep everything he has to offer to himself, give to someone who really wants it. Jack can survive without his lies, without that lot speaking silence. 

The brown eyes glint with something deep but Mark never utters a word. 

The night after, he screams to empty walls and unreal darkness. His hands are still covered in blood, red with his guilt. Just before sunrise, it all finally disappears, leaving Jack heaving exhausted and worn. His twisted and sweaty sheets hear his mad prayer, his plea for help. His wish to have things as they used to be. 

Even though he should be happy about discovering the truth, seeing Mark's real colors, he drowns in longing. 

~~

He wanted to tell. Still wants, wants to pour all those words on Jack, wants to tell the truth. He never wanted it to end up like this, come out because of a small slip, because of his mistake. 

It's not like him. Making mistakes. Questioning. 

The soldier in him keeps his mouth shut. He never wavers, not even before Jack's betrayed look, his blue eyes trying to sink him. There's nothing he can do he tries to tell himself. Apologizing is what his heart would like to do but it's useless. He's not sorry about doing what he was told. And Jack wouldn't care, the apology ringing to deaf ears. He wouldn't believe it either was it him at the other end. 

So he makes it soft, takes it easy on Jack. He keeps everything simple for him, taking it slow. He offers more words and less doing, more time and less panicking. They don't try to add lending to combat again, not yet at least. They focus on Jack's strengths, to the bow and arrows, agility, speed and mixing lending to those. They hone his strategy skills, talk about blindspots and decoys and luring. 

Still, hearing the cries along the hallway make Mark sick. Turning his back to them, closing his eyes and trying to sleep through it hurts like hell. But he does it, leaving Jack alone with his demons. Demons that he seems to count better than Mark. 

~~

He hears the silent apology and decides to leave it unanswered. 

It's showing in the way Mark moves, how his steps are silent and soft, how his punches and kicks keep missing Jack though his eyes never miss him. It's in his silence, words only used for instructions and commands, staying in line, never touching the walls. And it's in his choices, pushing and pulling Jack from all the right places, making it all physical when he knows that Jack's head is becoming a chaotic mess, too quick for him to handle. 

Mark pulls every inch of strength, every mile of speed out of Jack, leaving no time for thoughts. It keeps the beast silent, too, making everything feel empty. Jack keeps telling himself that it's what he wants right now, needs that distance. But it just makes the nights worse. 

Somewhere between all that, Mark's sofa is forgiven and Jack finds himself wandering onto it again, tired and distressed. 

They waste the end of the month like that, returning to their old habits, only occasionally poking the beast awake from its stupor. Maybe as a revenge from all that softness, Mark glues the gun to Jack's hand, its metal smoking hot, more deadly after each hour, Jack's palms hardening against it. It's still not Jack's own but it's gotten its own holster, hanging by the shooting range's door. Sometimes the dark shadow it leaves behind reminds Jack of the sins it was made for, leaving his blood running cold. 

In his dreams the beast steals the gun from him, snaps the nerves from his trigger finger, taking control. It's just black smoke and death after that, bloodrage and splattered brains on the walls, the sickening taste of blood in the back of his throat. Or sometimes it's the barrel of the gun, staring right back with its pitch black void, waiting to swallow him. Death bells keep ringing in his ears. 

He wakes up covered in cold sweat, wanting to vomit. 

It's that horrible fear that keeps him cornered, steals everything from him. Until Mark pushes again, walks to him palms open, chin down, eyes glimmering with pleas. He places the poles around him, takes some police tape and circles them, making a safe little space where Jack can be what he is – taking only the parts he still accepts. 

At the same time, he forgets. He forgets Mark's words, forgets the way he said that name, forgets the healing scar under his eye. It doesn't mean he forgives but he's able to be again, take what he gets and move on. He doesn't open up his mouth anymore, doesn't trust even to that smallest bit. He doubts Mark can ever be his partner, ever be his second eyes watching his back. 

Some sadistic part of him enjoys the thought of forcing Mark to fail now, ruining his carefully thought out plan. Oh how he never saw this coming, never took this into consideration. That perfect soldier. That fool. 

Lending is the first part he lets Mark push into him when the next month starts and the guy becomes impatient. They mix it with stealth practice, trying out some easy animals: squirrels, felines, a fox. Speed and agility and some predator instincts that leave Jack breathless, feeling like this world is much greater than anyone ever thought it could be. It's like living in two worlds at the same time, some parts fitting, some parts clashing. 

And then it all clicks, forms clear paths in his head. He has always been part animal, part human. He was never whole without, was never meant to be. 

He tells that to Mark and the next day he walks into a trap, to a dark room he's never visited before. ”This is an exercise I wanted you to try out,” Mark explains with that emotionless voice Jack has gotten used to by now. Their eyes never meet, while Mark tells the rules. In and out undetected. Avoid getting caught by the cameras planted everywhere. Eliminate all the targets. Get the flag. 

”It's impossible,” Jack mutters, staring at the map on the table telling him what to expect. Every dot on the map is a camera or an enemy and right now it looks like a fucking ant hill. Even before Mark tells him that about every dot is going to move, each and every one of them unique and carefully scheduled. There are no blind spots, no gaps to slip into. Jack gives out a desperate laugh, unbelieving, already given up and then Mark glances at him, brown eyes sparkling mischievously. ”Yes. But you're going to be invisible.” 

Jack never knew Mark would be the one to show skill in using his imagination. That stoic soldier, always tangled in orders and bureaucratic games of power. A pawn, blindly obeying. But maybe that's what makes him so good at his job, makes him the best MSD has to offer. He obeys but thinks on his own, sees possibilities and new plans and chances. Maybe he's a little bit crazy, too because what he proposes is insanity, a fucking fairytale. 

Chameleons. That's his solution and Jack wishes he could say no but something about the way Mark looks at him, all wonderous and excited, forces him to only frown. ”You mean that I should believe in some damn stories?” Jack asks, doubting Mark's – and even more his own – sanity. Since when did they teach bedtime stories and legends in the military school? And more, when did those stories become real-life options? 

When did he start to believe everything he was told? 

Maybe it's that weird part of him that wishes to accomplish something impossible. Or maybe it's just Mark, with his stone-like words and shining eyes, believing in anything. The way he explains that chameleons aren't mere survivors, they're partly magical. That it's not just them blending into their surroundings, it's actually disappearing from sight. That they're more powerful than anyone knows. 

”It's just a theory,” Mark says, climbing down from his dream castle built on a cloud. He stares at Jack's hands, somehow looking like he's agitated to touch them. Jack hides them behind his back, suddenly painfully aware how close they've drifted while discussing this. Mark smells like gasoline but softer right before his eyes. His warmth is already on his skin. 

Trembling, Jack takes a step away from it all. ”So you're going to make me sacrifice myself for a theory?” He asks, his mouth a straight line, brows knitted together. Mark smiles. ”Yeah, pretty much.” 

At least it isn't boring. Comprehending the complexity of catching the power of a chameleon is more than just lending. Jack's never even seen a living chameleon in his life so it's hard to picture one now and he spends hours and hours beside his computer, studying unimportant shit that suddenly becomes his lifeline. He learns that there's no chameleon able to become invisible but with the pigmentation of their skin and a layer that has special crystals on it they're able to fool most of their environment to think they can. Mark debates about it with him, stubbornly believing in his own theory. ”A little bit of your magic and it's possible!” he says, eyes filled with faith. 

Testing it only results in skills he never asked for. There's that tongue that goes on and on, acts like a wine, makes Jack unable to speak. Eyes that he can roll around if he wishes, giving him sights that make his brain form knots and stomach turn. Hands and fingers that grab everything, make climbing as easy as walking. Skin full of hard thorns, an armor not made of steel but scales, as colorful as a rainbow. 

Those scales aren't made of glass, they don't even shimmer. And still, somehow, Mark believes there's a way. 

When it actually works, Jack's astonished. He can't stop staring at his arms, seeing nothing. He can see through himself, can watch straight into Mark's brown eyes, dwell in that confusion and proudness. There's nothing of him in this world and he wishes to laugh because this is something he always wanted. To disappear. To cease to exist. 

It scares him to be able to do that and he tries to catch his breath when he rushes back. Mark is excited, like a small puppy. Doing the impossible is like a drug to him, giving him the incoherent high that Jack can't reach. Or maybe he's just too conflicted to admit that he feels the high, too, that learning something new, something magical, makes his head spin. That he never believed in this and now that it's happening, it's like giving a child a new toy. He can't get enough of it, he's thoroughly fascinated by it and he keeps disappearing and appearing, going on and off like a damn light bulb. 

A few days after figuring it out, Mark throws him in. The map hasn't changed, all of the moving parts are still present but Jack takes his chances trusting his newfound weapon. The first time is like face planting into the water. He tries his best, all confident and shit, but ends up failing miserably. Only ten seconds in and Mark's voice crackles through his earpiece, telling him that the second camera caught him getting a nice little shot of his shimmering back. That he got distracted and became visible again, that he divided his attention between too many things and forgot to stay under. 

It's hard, it all hurts his head and sometimes his blood catches flame, like gasoline, when he gets frustrated. It reminds him of why he's scared and there are days when he storms out, not wanting to show his panic. 

Those nights he stays awake till god knows how late, wanting to be sure that Mark's asleep before sneaking into his room, curling onto his sofa. He feels his blood stretching in his veins, like wanting to escape. The beast moans, making his eyes twitch, turn to red and purple and black. He wishes he could stop staring at himself on the shiny surface of Mark's coffee table. When he finally gets his eyes to stay closed, his sleep is mechanical, like someone had dug the batteries out of him. 

So he buries himself into this one goal. He's so determined to find the right path, to succeed in this that sometimes Mark needs to drag him out of the room and lock the door. When they've been at it for days in a row, without taking any actual breaks, more than to eat and sleep, Mark pulls them to a halt and ushers Jack away. 

They don't go outside to sit there together anymore but Jack likes to take short walks around the fences. Sometimes he just stands there and stares. And because Mark can't let him go outside alone, Jack can feel him staring too, pretending like he's not, always eyes cast down to his own feet. But Jack can feel the weight on his shoulders and he knows. Mark keeps an eye on him, making sure he doesn't get out of line. 

Or maybe worrying, caring for him. Which is a joke, a lie Jack will never believe to be true. 

He learns to hate Mark's voice. The mechanic, crackling version of it that hurts his ears and tells him that he's yet again failed drives him nuts. Silence means he's still in the game. That he still has his chance, to get further, to try one more time. But when the voice rings in his ear it's all over, everything wasted. Or maybe not everything because every time he gets a little bit better, knows a little bit more. 

It teaches him that the worst thing is not knowing, going in blind. Mark's been talking about it non stop but now it finally sinks in, how scary it is. The maps help as much as showing pictures to blind people and after a week Jack throws them aside, only relying on his senses. As a chameleon, his eyesight is clearer and he sees further. It's like a zooming lens on top of his own eyes. 

And then, one time, everything just stays silent the whole way. Jack's past the point he failed last time – one stupid corner where his plan failed and he was caught in plain sight by the black plastic doll that represents the enemy soldier – his senses tingling and heart beating fast because he's carrying on trusting only his instincts now, the magic humming under his skin and eyes bright green because of the effort. Mark has said nothing, a constant presence in the back of Jack's head but invisible, freakishly silent. It's good but it makes Jack nervous, makes his legs unsteady. He knows he's close, so painfully close, and then he sees the flag, guarded by his last target. 

The plastic doll loses its head in Jack's mad rush for the flag, and after a second he grips the red piece of cloth in his hands, screaming his lungs out for victory. 

Mark emerges somewhere, joining in on the shouting, brown eyes sparkling with excitement and lips curled into a mad smile. Without thinking – Jack too drunk on success to even realize, Mark too careless as always – they hug each other and hold on tight, warm and happy. They laugh, faces inches apart, and Jack can smell the musk of Mark's neck, can feel the warm hands against his back and soft locks between his fingers. 

Something inside of Jack roars to the contact and then he jerks back, pushing Mark away from him. The flag gets tangled into Mark's empty holster strapped to his side, Jack locking his eyes to the small microphone hanging from Mark's ear, refusing to meet his eyes. His body feels hot, burning from the places Mark touched, his heart ice cold. 

_What have you done?_

”You made it,” Mark whispers, arms still outstretched and smile splitting his face in half. Jack nods, slowly gathering himself. Nothing has changed, he tells to himself, blood rushing in his ears. This is just them working towards the same goal, moving on on pure instinct. It means nothing that their first instinct was to get close, to share it all. 

Those instincts have been wrong so many times that it's easy to ignore the small voice inside Jack's head that sings the word 'attachment' and make his eyes shimmer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title from the song "Hot Water" by Audien & 3LAU


End file.
